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THE 


POETICAL WORKS 


\/ 

JONATHAN W. MOSS. 



Cameron, W. Va., 
JONATHAN W. MOSS, 


1886. 

* 





?s 3 4-3^ 

.M 8 


Copyrighted 1886, by Jonathan W. Moss, 
Cameron, W. Va. 




CONTENTS. 


The Orphan Boy. 7- 31 

The Bachelor. 33- 45 

The Bewitched Dogs. 47- 59 

The Old Familiar Stream.61- 66 

Edmund Rose. 67- 79 

The Old Gray Horse. 81- 84 

The Retrospect. 85- 86 

The Old Tattered Coat. 87- 88 

The Ramble. 89- 93 

Evening Song...95- 96 

The Deadened Tree. 97- 98 

Pete Shepard’s Wedding. 99-101 

The Harp of Age.103-104 

Mary’s Pup.105-106 

Recollections.107-108 

The Sacred Tree .;.109-m 

Lines on the Death of Robert Collett.113-114 

Only this Once.115-116 

A Prayer.117-118 

Youth and Age.119-120 

Not to You. 121-123 

Morning Caroi.125-126 

Song of the Swiss Emigrant. 127-128 

Winter. 129-132 

The Album Tree.133-134 

Tobacco.135-138 

The First Gray Hair.139-142 

The Wonder Land.143-151 

Katy the Idiot.153-156 

The Battle on the Bridge.157-169 

Babylon.171-173 

The Bridegroom’s Song.175—177 

Elegy on the Ills of Life. 179-181 

The Emigrant.183-184 

Epitaph... . 185 

Inscription on the Gravestone of Jennings J. Moss. 187 

The Poet’s Apology. 189-191 

Address to an Oyster. I 93~ I 95 

Evening Musings. 197-201 

Sonnet. 2 °3 

Mountain Tf.a.205-207 

Lovegood’s Army.209-224 

A Sigh. 22 5 

Sonnet—on Love. 22 7 

The Fall.229-230 














































































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s sometimes pleasing to the soul, 

When we ourselves are somewhat sad. 
And mem’ry doth some page unroll, 

Which shows us but a weeping lad, 

To listen to some simple tale, 

Where love and sorrow doth prevail; 

Not the wild love of after years, 

Whose blight is far too deep for tears. 


Come, then, and hear the orphan boy, 
While he recites a page or two, 
Nor let his artless tale destroy 

The happiness God gives to you. 


7 









8 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


A sad forsaken orphan boy, 

I tread the path of life alone; 

There is not left a single joy 

That might the ills of life atone; 

But I am as a withered leaf, 

Cast from the tree in bloom of spring 
Torn from a life of joy too brief, 

And driv’n before the tempest’s wing. 
Sometimes a joy lights up mine eye, 

And I feel blessed, I scarce know why. 

I love at even fall to seek 

Some mountain summit, dark and bleak. 

Where I may muse in solitude, 

O’er all that hath my soul imbued 
With love of contemplation, when 
Far from the busy haunts of men ; 

And though my friends oft question me, 
Why ’tis that they so often see 
Me so reserved in company, 

So careless of the idle glee, 

And of the boistrous mirth, 

That oft the friendly circle cheers, 

And gives the happiest feelings birth— 
They never saw my tears. 

I answer smiling, but the cause 
Is buried deep within my breast, 

Where it lies hid, but not to rest, 

And scarce by words to be expressed; 

For that which most in secret draws 
The yearning heart-strings lies concealed, 






Alone I sought the gloomy shade 
Where I before had often prayed.” 










































































THE ORPHAN BOY. 


2 


A mystery not to be revealed. 

Yet oft in seeming merriment, 

Amid the social band is spent, 

Some passing hours of life, but then 
I still prefer the lonely glen. 

When twelve years old my father died, 
And left me in my mother’s care, 
Whose industry but scarce supplied 
Our raiment and our scanty fare. 
With none to comfort or to aid, 

And numbers ready to upbraid, 

She struofsded with increasing cares; 

oo o 7 

But never-ceasing struggle wears 
All vigor by degrees away. 

I saw her sinking day by day, 

Yet hoped affliction still might spare 
Her weary life, at last to share 
The pleasure of some brighter hour; 
But still she sunk beneath the power— 
Say was it of some inward blight, 
Invisible to mortal sight— 

It matters not—she passed away. 

And when in death I saw her lay 
The inmate of a winding sheet, 

With ev’n in death a look so sweet, 
Alone I sought the gloomy shade, 
Where I before had often prayed ; 

And there I kneeled me down to pray, 
But not a single word could say, 


10 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


Nor ev’n in thought could offer up 
A faint petition with a hope; 

I had not even a desire 

But that did then and there expire. 

I raised my eyes in dull despair 
To Heaven, without beholding there 
Aught that proclaimed a power on high, 

A ruler of the earth and sky; 

But all seemed desolate and dark, 

Without itself a single spark, 

To call the spirit from a sphere 
That promise gave of nothing dear. 

Long thus I lingered, but at length 
I thought to rise, but had not strength, 

Till, hardened in its withering blight 
The soul conceived its tortures light, 

Or grown insensible to pain, 

Because all powerless to complain— 

I rose and left—I found my home 
Crowded with friends and neighbors, come 
To bear my mother to her grave, 

Which made me a like rest to crave. 

But it was home to me no more, 

As it had been in days before. 

I saw them weeping round her bier, 

But I shed not a single tear; 

For though my spirit had not fled 
1 felt as if I too were dead. 

I heard some friends and neighbors say— 
That saw me tearless on that day— 
























































































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THE ORPHAN BOY. 


ii 


They wondered how I thus could see 
My mothers corpse, from grief so free. 

I thought to tell them my distress, 

But speechless was my wretchedness. 

I saw her covered o’er with clay, 

And we were left on earth to be 
Children of wretchedness—yes, we — 

For I was not the only child 

On which my mother’s bright eye smiled. 

I had one brother. He was all 

The brother e’er in life I knew, 

And oft his features I recall, 

And all that made me love him too; 
For he now in his lowly grave, 

Is resting by the riplet’s wave. 

He was a most delightful boy, 

Whose eye appeared the throne of joy— 
O God ! to think that such should be 
By unrelenting fate’s decree, 

A sad receptacle for tears. 

He was the younger by some years, 

But my companion from his birth, 

The solace of my stay on earth : 

But in submission to our fate, 

We now were forced to separate; 

Yet fortune, not in all unkind, 

For us two did asylums find, 

Asunder but a mile or so, 

And thus the pleasure we could know, 



12 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


Of seeing other now and then, 

Though in the care of heartless men— 
Alas ! that I am here while he 
Is from all earthly sorrow free. 

Once on a pleasant holiday 

We met together with some boys, 
To spend an afternoon at play, 

And revel free in youthful joys. 
Such boys were they as had not felt 
The woes that make the bosom melt. 

But they ere long unfeelingly, 

Grown satisfied of harmless glee, 

To join them in some cruel sport, 

To which they did at last resort, 
Requested me, and I refused. 

They thought to force me to submit, 

And threatened, in an angry fit, 

To make me yield to what they willed, 
Or else they’d have me almost killed. 

One boy who was of larger size 
Than I, with fury in his eyes, 

First struck me fiercely in the face, 

But soon I drove him from the place. 
Then, in a transport of wild rage, 

His rude companions did engage, 

As they imagined, to chastise 

The soul that could their threats despise. 

My little brother by my side, 


THE ORPHAN BOY. 


*3 


With me their onset did abide; 

And though his might was impotence, 

So bravely he, in my defense, 

Resisted them and took my part, 

That even then my aching heart, 

Thought that it would be joy to die 
For such a noble brother’s sake. 

He looked on me with such an eye 
Of love, I thought my heart would break; 

And when he raised on high 
His little, trembling hand to strike 
Our foe, with such a brave dislike, 

I scarcely could refrain from tears; 
But then those other boys were by, 

And so I smothered with my fears, 
My tears of love and sympathy. 

While thus I struggled with my foes, 
Returning as I could their blows, 

One seized a club with which he thought 
To strike me, and with this design 
He hastened to the spot; 

But brother’s eye, by whom was mine 
But never his own danger seen, 

With hands uplifted, rushed between 
Me and the weapon, and received 
The blow upon his fearless cheek; 

How deeply in my heart I grieved, 

To see by this the bright blood streak 
That angel countenance. 



14 - 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


And when he saw my troubled glance 
Turned to him—0! the look he gave. 

But now our foes, who found us brave 
Their insolence determinedly, 

Thought it was best to set us free. 

They left us and we left the place 
That naught from memory shall erase. 

And once together since, we met, 

As in the west the sun just set, 

Beside our mother’s grave, where we 
Still in the dreary past could see 
One star to guide our steps, that shone; 

It was a mother’s love, and lone 
O’er all the ruins of the past, 

And on its gloom, a radiance cast. 

I must confess that 1 was most, 

In sorrow, without comfort lost. 

But still I thought my little brother 
Might live to cheer my after life, 

He was so loving, like my mother, 

It soothed the cares of this world’s strife. 
I strove to hide my wretchedness, 

Yet he perceived the deep distress 
That took possession of my heart, 

And made an effort to impart 
Some consolation, but in vain ; 

I saw too that some inward pain 
Was crushing his brave spirit, though 
He seemed to wish me not to know ; 




THE TWO FRIENDS 



















THE ORPHAN BOY. 




He knew ’twould grieve me but the more, 
From what of me he’d known before. 

In sorrow long we lingered there, 

In uncomplaining, deep despair, 

We did not talk our sorrows o’er, 

But talked of better days to come 
Than ever we had known before, 

And of a brighter home, 

Than could this world of sorrow give, 

In Heaven with all the blest to live— 

We parted; but we never more 
Together met upon that spot; 

But memory can still restore 

The scenes that cannot be forgot. 

How all that kindled in my breast, 

A love that cannot be expressed, 

For my kind brother, whom no more 
To me on earth will aught restore, 

Rises before my mental gaze, 

To wake to life anew, 

What round my life in former days 
A fond enchantment threw ; 

For how distinctly now I see, 

In mem’ry’s eye, one time when he 
Was privileged to come and see 
His much loved brother, when he’d done 
His hard day’s work at set of sun ; 

And when he came to me, 

His look was pale and yet resigned, 


i6 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


For his was a contented mind. 

I had been busy all the day, 

In forking and in raking hay; 

And being younger than the rest, 

Who labored with me, I was pressed 
To keep my place ; I could not bear 
To be all day the hindmost there. 

My brother saw my wearied look, 

And cast an eye of sad rebuke 
On him for whom from day to day, 

I toiled my weary life away ; 

And when he heard me told to go 
And do some work, with little show 
Of mercy in the mandate, he 
Ran off and did it all for me. 

And when he heard me say that I 
Was thirsty, without knowing why, 

I saw him leave my side ; 

But then he was not absent long, 

For him I soon espied ; 

And in his hand—O love too strong!— 

A cup of water for my thirst ; 

Then thought I my full heart would burst; 
And when his pale, white hand raised up, 
To me the full and cooling cup, 

It trembled ; so did mine ; 

And then how did his glowing eyes 
Express a love divine, 

As they observed my sweet surprise. 


THE ORPHAN BOY. 




And when the evening shadows fell 
Upon the earth, all silently ; 

And feelings in the heart that dwell, 

Glow with a bright intensity, 

We wandered forth upon that eve, 

But whether to rejoice or grieve, 

I scarcely know, for in the heart, 

A joy may dwell, nor grief depart. 

The plain, most beautiful and wide, 

And darkened with the hues of night, 
Lay round us in majestic pride, 

A few tall trees stood on our right. 

Our sorrows seemed to grow more ligflit, 

As thus we sadly passed along, 

And happier days to come in sight, 

And by degrees our frames grow strong, 
And all our woes to take their flight. 

As for myself, my faint heart beat 
All destitute of living heat; 

But then my little brother’s tongue, 

Forgetful seemed of every wrong, 

He told me how, when he grew strong, 

And life had gathered strength with years, 

It was his joyous hope to dry 

From many a sorrowing cheek the tears. 

And when we long had wandered there, 
Viewing the shadowed loveliness 
Of nature in the darkened air, 

Which seemed the spirit rapt to bless; 


i8 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


We left that place, no more to meet 
Each other there, or e’er retreat, 

Together from the face of men, 

And there to be alone as then; 

But scarcely less alone were we, 

When numbers round us we could see, 
Because the throb of sympathy, 

The breast of none beside could stir, 

But we desired no comforter, 

Such comforter as may be found, 

In those our pathway who surround, 

That night, however, rolled away, 

And the sun flung another day, 

From his high throne, as bright as though 
The earth were destitute of woe; 

And then we parted, but once more 
To meet as we had met before, 

And that one meeting was our last; 

Since then my every joy is past. 

’Twas on a bright and lovely day 

Of autumn, when the woods are tinged 
With hues of darkest green, ere they, 

By frosty breath to brown are singed ; 
And it was in the morning bright, 

We came together that we miofht, 

Spend a glad day together, free 
As such could be from misery. 

We sought the forest dark and wide, 

Not wholly that we there might hide 



44 We sought the forest dark and wide ” 

















THE ORPHAN BOY. 


*9 


From sight of men, but to behold, 

The charms that nature doth unfold, 

Where her dominion none disputes, 

The home of insects, birds and brutes. 

We sat beneath the oak-tree hoar, 

Whose naked roots projected o'er, 

The merry rivulet that played 
Beneath its cooling, tranquil shade, 

And watched the shining waters pass. 

While sitting on the fresh green grass, 

And merry fish that sported there, 

Free as their element from care. 

We traced the streamlet to its source, 
Through valleys dark and drear, 

Where woods hung o’er its darkened course, 
But filled us not with fear. 

The little, curious pebbles which 
Were lying in its furrowed ditch, 

We picked up now and then, and found 
In them much matter did abound 
For speculation, but not long 
We paused o’er them, these scenes among. 
We clambered up the steep hill side, 

That stood in dark majestic pride 
Before us, with its coronal 
Of darkened green ere long to fall, 

And rustle o’er its bosom bare, 

To winds that still are sporting there; 

But soon we came while wandering round, 


20 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


Treading this unfrequented ground, 

Unto a dark and deep defile, 

That nursed a native gloom the while, 

Where we approached this deep ravine, 
Whose depths lay dark and dull between 
The hills that rose on either side, 

That mortal foot had never tried. 

We saw the long trunk of a tree 
Across it thrown, as if to be 
A bridge for squirrels to trip o’er, 

To the opposing rugged shore. 

But when we’d stood and viewed the place, 
Though wild, possessed of many a grace, 

Until we deemed it time to leave, 

But not because we did receive 
No pleasure from what was before 
Our eyes, which were pleased more and more. 
We thought to cross on this fall’n tree, 

And all that was beyond us see; 

And as I stepped thereon before 
My brother, who was to come o’er 
Behind me close, that he might be, 

And feel, in more security. 

We deemed it in a slight degree 
Dangerous to cross, but did not see 
But that it might be safely done, 

Just then by almost any one, 

And had proceeded full half way, 

Though with some caution and delay, 

But now we felt no more afraid, 


THE ORPHAN BOY. 


21 


Our pass could not be safely made, 

When all at once my brother slipped, 

As on the mossy bark he stepped, 

I happened to perceive his fall, 

In fact I heard him faintly call 
My name, and turned around to see— 

O ! shocking spectacle to me ; 

His body had slid down, and now 
Was dangling o’er the gulf below. 

To a protruding knot he clung, 

By which a moment there he hung, 

With one hand, whose convulsive grasp ; 
The hard, rough bark did vainly clasp, 

The other was stretched out to me, 

So sadly and imploringly, 

I saw his knuckles crowing w hjt e 

And bloodless, for their o’erstrained might 

Was fast becoming less and less; 

They shook with their own feebleness ; 

He turned his bloodshot eyes to mine, 
With look so hopeful and divine ; 

And as he looked me in the face, 

I in his twitching lips could trace, 

An effort vainly made to speak, 

For he had grown all numb and weak ; 

But now before my wildered sight, 

That seemed all wrapped in hopeless night, 
The bark that neath his clutch gave way, 
Forbade another moment’s stay ; 

His hands were snatching at the bark, 


22 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


Like those that grapple in the dark, 

For what they are in haste to clutch, 

And though all helpless his were such; 
And as he disappeared below, 

No more to suffer earthly woe, 

I heard a dull and heavy crash, 

’Twas his loved body’s fatal dash. 

All this occurred in time so brief, 

It had almost defied relief, 

Ev’n from the steady hand of one 
Who did not feel himself undone, 

All this I saw with my own eyes. 

Enough it was to paralyze 
The muscles of my weary frame, 

And strangely wild my soul became. 

I leaped from the accursed spot, 

With scarcely a conception what, 

Or where I was ; I did not flee 
To save me from the fate that he 
So late had met; but still I fled 
With Providence directed tread. 

My agitation now was gone, 

And o’er my soul a calm came on, 

And I resolved to go and see 
Where could my hapless brother be ; 

I little thought him then possessed, 

With aught of life within his breast. 

A hope, however, struggled still, 

Which seemed the offspring of my will, 
Within my bosom, and I thought 



THE ORPHAN BOY. 


2 3 

That peradventure he was not, 

Entirely dead and motionless, 

And so I stifled my distress. 

I sought him and I found his head, 

The back of which was crushed, reposing, 
Upon a stone, with his blood red; 

He seemed as if in slumber dozing, 
When first I saw him, and his eye 
Was glazed and turned to the blue sky, 

But still was beaming faintly bright, 

With love’s inspiring, holy light, 

I watched him lying thus, but saw 
Ere long his limbs convulsive draw. 

His wound did not appear to me 
So great but that he yet might be 
Restored to life, and light, and love, 

And then I saw him gently move, 

His heart beat quickly, and anon, 

His pulse a moment would be gone, 

But now to consciousness he woke, 

As suddenly from slumber broke, 

And stared me wildly in the face, 

And looked around upon the place, 

As if he deemed it strange that we 
Within that horrid place should be; 

He seemed to be unconscious all 
Of his sad, unexpected fall; 

Nor spoke he aught except my name, 

Which trembling from his white lips came. 


24 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


He did not seem to know that aught 
Was ailing him, and so I thought 
It would be better not to tell 
How in that rocky gulf he fell; 

For I had heard my mother speak 
Of one who had gone out to seek 
For game, whose gun by accident 
Went off, and into his brain sent 
The murderous charge; and he went home 
In this condition, and when come, 

Inquired what ailed him; when ‘twas said 
That he was shot—he fell down dead ! 

I wiped the cold sweat from his face, 

And helped him out of this sad place, 

For he was much recovered now ; 

The light of life beamed from his brow, 

But still he nothing knew of what 
Had been his melancholy lot. 

He said that he had been asleep, 

And dreaming in that valley deep, 

Of angels bright and beautiful 
That came on shining 1 wings, 

Who'se presence did the sorrows lull 
That spring from earthly things; 

They told him how that they had come 
To bear him to a brighter home ; 

Thus he went on—“I asked if you 
Would go along all happy too; 

They answered that you’d also be 
Ere long one of our company; 


THE ORPHAN BOY. 


25 


And when I think of all my sight 
Observed in that unearthly light, 

I almost wish I had not woke, 

Unless ’twere you my slumber broke; 
Their brightness on my soul now breaks— 
But—brother! O, how my head aches!”— 
His tongue became a moment still, 

And we together staggered on, 

But o'er my frame there came a chill, 

And sense and reason half were gone, 

The hand I held within my own 
Was twitching with the shock of death; 
Yet life burned in his every tone, 

And quicker still he drew his breath, 

But now he started up anew, 

And looked my anxious face into, 

And faltered—“Where did mother go! 

I saw her smiling face just now ; 

But what now makes my brother cry, 

And tears to sparkle in his eye, 

O, tell me did I say or do 
A thing that thus would trouble you ? 

I thought if mother did come back, 

That nothing you or I would lack—” 

He paused—“O, brother what can make 
My head so dizzy, and so ache; ” 

But still I faintly led him on, 

Through that sad wilderness alone; 

For near us there was not a friend, 

That could the least assistance lend, 


26 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


Nor open field, nor house in view, 

And then I saw he weaker grew, 

And slower still his steps became, 

And the cold dew upon his frame, 

To gather, yet at times inspired, 

Or by some inward vigor fired, 

He’d hasten on a step or so, 

Ev’n faster than myself could go. 

And my own wretchedness so pressed 
Upon my scarcely beating breast, 

I knew not whether it could be 
In mercy to be doomed to see 
Another morning sun arise, 

And fling his radiance from the skies, 

But ’twas not long as thus we trod 
The wilderness where sprung no sod, 
Until he gave a sudden spring 
Like frightened bird upon the wing, 

His hand all tremulous and cold, 

From mine now lossed its slackened hold. 
Exclaimed he as he forward fell, 

In voice that did of gladness tell, 

“ Come, I am ready, let us go,” 

And then his slight form sunk below: 

And this was all, and all to me, 

Of sorrow that mine eyes could see; 

I did not weep but sorrow felt: 

My eyes to tears refused to melt; 

A shudder slight ran o’er his frame, 

And then it motionless became, 


THE ORPHAN BOY. 


2 7 

Never again before my eyes, 

To stir in beautiful disguise 
Of sorrow, for it seemed to me 
That it could nothing better be ; 

I felt his heart and found it still, 

His pulse had ceased, his frame was chill, 
And in his eye the dreamy stare 
Of hope that struggles with despair, 

And yet ’twas fixed and silent there, 

With smile that told of conquered care; 

And when I saw him lying thus, 

I almost wished that both of us 
Together had been lying low, 

The victims of a single blow ; 

But then there came another thought 
Across my brain, I knew not what, 

For I was wildered, and all lost, 

And knew not what I thought of most, 

But that I stood and gazed on him, 

Until my aching eyes grew dim; 

And while I gazed it seemed to me, 

As if it surely could not be 

That he was dead, and would no more 

With me the wild woods wander o’er; 

It seemed as if he did deceive 
My eyes, for I could scarce believe 
But that he still retained his life; 

In fact the very air seemed rife 
With the sweet accents I had heard 
Fall like the warble of a bird, 


28 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


Upon my ear, and though in vain, 

It seemed as if I saw again 
His form around me like a bright, 

Angelic vision of the night; 

His image in my mind did glow, 

I could not, would not, let it go. 

I saw it in its actions kind, 

The products of a heavenly mind, 

And could not, would not see it lay 
Before me, a cold lump of clay. 

My heart was aching, and my soul 
Refused its sorrow to control. 

I knew not what might best be done, 

But stood and gazed his form upon, 

With look of half delirious woe, 

In briny tears that would not flow, 

I seemed unconscious all of aught 
On earth, save what my troubled thought 
Like gloom around a flame, embraced. 

Ah me ! it was a dreary waste, 

Whereon my spirit brooded long, 

As broods the soul o’er some deep wrong, 
But then at length I heard a sound, 

While standing there, and turned around, 

To notice whence it did proceed, 

And saw approaching me with speed, 

Some men belonging to the place 

Where I was living; they were come 
In search of us; they deemed the space 

Of time, since we had been from home 


THE ORPHAN BOY. 


So long, in some mishap they thought, 
Most probably we had been caught. 

And they had come and found us here, 
And all to me that could be dear, 

Before me lying cold and dull, 

And yet so strangely beautiful. 

All lost in deep astonishment 
They seemed, and something of lament 
Broke from their lips, but I saw more, 
Withal of wonder rising o’er 
Their minds, with that excitement blent, 
Which seemed to have no fixed intent; 
But take it all in all, in chief 
I saw ’twas anything but grief, 

Some sympathy, perhaps, but not 
The grief that pinned me to the spot. 
They took my brother’s lifeless form, 

And bore it while it yet was warm, 

To where he had been living; there 
I too in sorrow did repair; 

Men gathered round to gaze upon 
The features whence all life was gone, 

And then they too so questioned me 
About his death unceasingly. 

I told them all as best I could, 

How he was lost in that wild wood, 

And though my words were faint and few, 
And satisfied but little too, 

My sorrow made that little do; 

And scarce a token of regret 


3° 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


With any could I view, 

And even myself appeared to fret 
But little, well I knew. 

But yet upon my heart there lay 
An aching sense of dull decay, 

As it could never pass away. 

That night I lay in troubled sleep, 

And yet beneath the sway 
Of mem’ries that did sweep 
Along the track of life, while yet 
My brother’s spirit and mine met, 

And blent together here below, 

And ours was mutual joy or woe. 

Next day I saw him in the grave 
Laid low, and I could scarcely crave 
To see him here on earth again, 

To mingle with the throng of men, 

For I would rather follow him, 

If his pure spirit ’twould not dim, 

For mine to hover near, with love 
That’s only understood above; 

Yet something of that love my heart 
Has known for him; of earth no part. 

Yes, he is gone—well let him go, 

o o 

It matters little now to me; 

Not long remaining here below, 

My spirit shall in thraldom be. 


THE ORPHAN BOY. 


3* 


I look not now upon the world, 

As one who looks upon his home, 

And all its sunset clouds unfurled, 

Seem vain; in exile still I roam. 

Still—still from day to day I view, 

The bright sun rise as if to lieht 

My way to his own native blue, 

Where all is lovely, pure and bright. 

Yet now and then I hear the words 
Of kindness falling on my ear; 

More musical than notes of birds, 

Which often in the grove I hear. 

And it has made me feel as though 
It would be joy to live, if but 

That kindness to return, when woe 

The light from out their breasts had shut. 

Their breasts who thus have made me feel 
That life on earth is not all vain, 

That the dull clay does not conceal 

Quite all of Heav’n it doth retain. 

Then knowing that this life can be 
But for a span, I will endure 

Its sorrows uncomplainingly, 

Expecting one to come more pure. 





























































































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^Phe last rays of a summer sun 
Shown on the hills afar, 

And all was calm, and there seemed naught, 
The bliss of man to mar. 


Seated upon a chair beneath 
A kinsman’s portico, 

A man somewhat in years looked forth, 
On nature’s living glow. 

And though around him far and near, 
Were objects fair to see, 

He oft would turn his eyes from them 
To gaze on vacancy. 


33 









34 - 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


H is little nephew, standing near, 
Observed his silent mood, 

And wondered in his mind what he 
Might say without being rude. 

And seeing in the old man’s look 
Nothing to make him fear, 

He ventured up and thus addressed 
His uncle’s ready ear : 

“I’ve often heard the people say, 
You were a bachelor; 

Now very much, indeed, I’d like 
To know what it is for?” 

Then sudden as the lightning’s flash, 
Athwart his features ran, 

A fiery glow of passionate thought, 
Which glittered for a span. 

Though suddenly it came, it passed 
As suddenly away, 

And did not then so much as seem 
His answer to delay. 

“ My darling boy, I scarcely know 
What answer to return, 

But it may please you full as well 
A story now to learn. 


THE BACHELOR . 


35 

“Yes. uncle, yes, I’d like to hear 
The tale you would impart, 

And such attention I will give, 

I’ll know it all by heart.” 

Well then, to please you, dearest boy, 

My story I’ll impart; 

’Tis one you never knew by head, 

And yet may learn by heart. 

“You know the old frame meeting house 
That stands upon the hill?” 

“Yes, uncle, for I pass it by, 

Whene’er I go to mill.” 

“ It now dilapidated stands, 

A sanctuary for 

The rats and mice, and hooting owls, 

That do the light abhor. 

“For they have built another in 
The valley down below, 

To which our people all resort, 

That makes a grander show. 

“And though it has been much admired. 

By people good and wise, 

It always had a look profane 
Unto your uncle’s eyes.” 


3 6 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


“Why, uncle, is it possible 

That you would rather be 
In that old dingy house than that, 

Which is so fine to see?” 

“O, yes, and when beneath its roof 
I stood the other day, 

While fell a sudden shower of rain 
I felt its mighty sway. 

You know the pine tree green and tall, 
That in the graveyard stands, 

And stretches forth its green boughs like 
Some gentle fairy’s hands ? ” 

“Yes, I have seen it oft and thought 
H ow beautiful that tree, 

And how I’d like some friend to plant 
One like it over me.” 

It stands upon the grave of one 
Who used to worship there, 

And found at length a resting place, 
From every worldly care. 

But then it is the story boy 
That I would tell to thee, 

Which I recall to mind whene’er 
That meeting house I see. 


THE BACHELOR . 


37 


’Twas long ago. Beneath the roof 
Of that decaying pile, 

A little congregation met 

To worship God the while. 

And one of them was a young lad; 

So young, indeed, was he, 

You’ll scarce perceive the time till you 
As many summers see. 

How bright the hopes that filled his breast, 
By words I could not show, 

And from my very heart, my boy, 

I wish I did not know. 

And once when on his way to church, 

(To that old house I mean), 

What time the happy smile of May 
Play’d on the landscape green. 

’Twas one of those delightful days, 

That follow a wet night, 

And make it seem so odd to see 
The brooklet’s rushing might. 

The little stream that gently flow’d 
Across the way to church, 

Had put two fairy forms this morn, 

In an unhappy lurch. 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


38 

Up came the boy, who, quick as thought, 
Perceived how matters stood, 

And that some plan must be contrived 
By which to cross the flood. 

He cast across the roaring stream, 

With all his youthful might, 

A lengthened pole with strength enough 
To bear them over, quite. 

Now to the boy to cross the stream 
An easy task appeared, 

But still the timid girls somewhat 
The undertaking feared. 

He looked to them; they looked to him, 
And then would laugh outright, 

And say, “ If we would but fall in 
We’d be in such a plight!” 

The elder girl, though young was in 
The dawn of womanhood, 

And seemed the first bright flower of May 
Just bursting through the bud. 

The other was of tenderer years; 

More talkative and gay, 

And all the freedom seemed to enjoy 
Of kid let out to play. 






“And so he took her by the hand. 
And led her o’er the stream.” 




























THE BACHELOR. 


39 


The boy, though brave to render aid, 

And oft in merry mood, 

Felt a strange sense steal o’er him now, 
Which he ill understood. 

They talked; conjectured the result 
Of an attempt to cross, 

And much delayed ; the boy declared 
They would not suffer loss. 

He thought to offer them his hand 
To help them o’er the stream, 

But could not summon courage up 
To offer it to them. 

But why, he really hardly knew, 

Unless it be the glance 
Of those bright, loving eyes, which seemed, 
To put him in a trance. 

Now each by turns would take a step 
This doubtful bridge upon, 

And then step back and say she felt 
Afraid to venture on. 

The boy now crossed in safety o’er, 

To show it could be done, 

And to the girls came back, when thus 
Spake out the elder one: 


4.0 


MOSS'S POEMS , 


“ I wouldn’t feel at all afraid 
On such a stick to stand, 

If I had only some one here 
To take me by the hand.” 

As quick as thought the boy stepped forth 
To give the needed aid, 

Yet when he looked her in the face, 

He really felt afraid. 

Though nothing but a gentle smile 
Upon her features play’d, 

Yet somehow, strange as it may seem, 

He really was dismayed. 

The younger girl however stood 
A little nearer him, 

And so he took her by the hand, 

And led her o’er the stream. 

This done, ’twas easy to conclude 
The task he had begun; 

The rapture then that filled his breast, 

On earth is seldom known. 

With merry laugh the lovely girl 
Now seized his proffered hand, 

Which sent a thrill thro’out his frame, 

Like some magician’s wand. 


THE BACHELOR . 


4 r 


With cautious step they crossed the stream, 
And did in safety stand, 

Upon the shore; but still they held 
Each other by the hand. 

Howe’er ’twas but a moment till 
They started on their way, 

And each unto the other had 
Some pleasant thing to say. 

They talked with freedom for a while, 

But strange, perhaps, to you, 

The longer they together walked, 

The silenter they grew. 

The church, however, soon was reached, 
Which seemed so very near, 

But what the preacher said, the boy 
I speak of did not hear. 

He only thought of the bright eyes 
Of witchery that shone, 

Like stars that rise, but then to set 
Are never, never known. 

Here Sabbath after Sabbath came, 

This youthful girl and boy, 

As if those walls embraced the source 
Of some mysterious joy. 


42 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


Though rain and wintry snows forbade, 
They failed not to be there, 

And many a time, indeed, they were 
The only youthful pair. 

And strange as it may seem to be, 

They ne’er familiar grew, 

Their first and last sweet intercourse, 

Was their first interview. 

Though every time he went to church 
The boy resolved to say 
Some pleasant thing to please her ear, 
Before he came away. 

But somehow there was always found 
A something in the way, 

A something that would interfere 
And cause him to delay. 

And so instead of speech to her 
Who charmed the very place, 

He only had the power to look 
Upon her lovely face. 

Thus Sabbath after Sabbath passed, 

Till years themselves had flown, 

And youth’s light voice had changed unto 
A deeper, graver tone. 


THE BACHELOR . 


43 


The man, (for now he was a man), 

Had passed through many a scene, 

But never from the memory of 

The past his heart could wean. 

At length this lady, loved in vain, 

Departed like some flower 
Of morn—but dead, when most we’ve need 
Of its refreshing power. 

They put her in the churchyard, where 
Her feet had often strayed — 

An evergreen by secret hands, 

Was set where she was laid. 

No flower had yet been seen to bloom 
Upon her lowly bed, 

Nor green grass carpeted the earth, 

That hid away the dead. 

When seated in this gray old church, 

In musing mood was he. 

The idol of whose heart was gone. 

Like vanished melody. 

Turning the leaves of hymn book old, 

To while the time away, 

Which as a wreck of former days, 

Beside him chanced to lay. 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


Listless he was until he saw 

The name he loved so well, 

Written therein, which to his heart, 

A thrilling tale did tell. 

He paused—and looked—and, lo ! in that 
Hand writing which he knew, 

Were traced some mystic words, whence he 
Strange inferences drew. 


Some incidents of former life, 

Seemed there alluded to; 

Or it might be some secret spell, 

Then brought them up to view. 

Though few the lines there written, they 
Seemed something to reveal, 

Which nothing but a bitter fate 
Had managed to conceal. 


What mingled grief and gladness rushed 
Upon his raptured soul, 

And, ah! what deep and dark regret, 
Upon him also stole. 

Since then, o’er life's tempestuous sea, 
He felt like vessel tossed, 

While unfamiliar seemed each star, 

And chart and compass lost. 




“He paused—and looked—and, lo! in that 
Hand writing which he knew. 

Were traced some mystic words, whence he 
Strange inferences drew.” 







THE BACHELOR. 


45 

What meant those words that thrilled his heart, 
I cannot surely say— 

If his was a delusion fond 
It never passed away. 

Thus has it always been, my boy, 

This hapless world upon; 

We fondly dream of angels, but 

Ne’er wake till they have gone. 

’Tis thus we journey on alone, 

And still with feeling war, 

While old and young with wonder ask, 

Why is he bachelor? 









































AT HOME 














































0 


Our Churches then weie built of logs. 
Our Schoolhouses were few. 

And teachers fierce old Irishmen, 


































































































































































































w here now the Monongalia’s flood 
Rolls cultured fields between, 

Not many years ago a wide 
Wild wilderness was seen. 

Our grandsires then, brave hearted came 
The forests to subdue; 

They cleared the fields, they planted corn, 
And many a possum slew. 

Our churches then were built of logs, 

Our school houses were few, 

And teachers fierce old Irishmen, 

From cross the ocean blue. 


47 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


But neither church nor school house gave 
Our countrymen delight, 

Like dim bin a- o’er the wooded hills 

o 

To catch a coon at night. 

A dozen men, a dozen dogs, 

The day’s work being o’er. 

Would meet together at some place, 

At sundown or before. 

What wondrous tales they had to tell, 

Of “varmints” they had killed, 

Of wolves and bears, and catamounts. 
With which some place was filled. 

A coon hunt of the kind I name 
Shall be my theme to-night; 

The hunters went out to catch game, 

But only caught a fright. 

The boys had met at farmer Scott’s, 

A score of them about, 

And something they felt bound to catch, 
That night at starting out. 

The very dogs were wild with joy, 

And well knew what was up; 

Their capers were enough to make 
One wish he were a pup. 





“ What 
Of 


wondrous tales they had to tell 
‘ varmints ’ they had killed ” 



















































































« 












THE BEWITCHED DOGS. 


19 


The moon was shining silver bright, 
The full October moon, 

The stars peeped out as if they too 
Were looking for a coon. 


Our Nimrods shouted to their dogs, 

The dogs yelped now and then, 

But not a coon that night appeared 
To venture from his den. 

The midnight hour, if not at hand, 

Was surely drawing nigh, 

And dogs and men impatient grown 
To see some “varmint” die. 

When of a sudden all there burst 
One wild tumultuous roar, 

No hunter there had ever heard 
The like o’ that before. 

The dozen dogs they started with, 

In numbers seemed increased, 

Till, counting by the noise, they were 
A thousand at the least. 

Each cur, each hound, each mongrel whelp, 
The pups they took to train, 

Rushed pell mell from the skirting wood 
Out in the open plain. 


50 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


The field wherein they took their chase 
Some twenty acres had, 

The meadow field of Reuben Stout, 

Who swore the dogs were mad. 

The field had been well cleared and was 
A beautiful wide plain, 

A splendid place wherein to chase 
A wild beast to be slain. 

To hear the dogs, to see them run, 
Showed well how fresh the trail; 

The men declared they plainly heard 
Them snapping at its tail. 

No common game they all declared 
The dogs did now pursue, 

It must be wolf or catamount, 

Perhaps a bear or two. 

No skunk or possum they were sure, 

Nor ordinary coon 

Could ever make those dogs belch forth 
Such an unearthly tune. 

In the wide field wherein they ran. 

Stood two remaining trees, 

At each end of the field one stood 
And whistled in the breeze. 


THE BEWITCHED DOGS. 




Round one of these the dogs at length, 
Were gathered in their glee; 

They yelped, they roared, they bit the bark, 
And tried to climb the tree! 

The men came rushing on behind, 

o 

And hissed the dogs and cheered, 

And some at least to venture close 
To be afraid appeared. 

But just as they approached the tree, 

With dogs all yelling round, 

Away went all the dogs at once, 

With most terrific bound. 

The bear, or whatsoe’er it was, 

Had bounded from the tree; 

So said the men, and on it now 
The dogs would shortly be. 

Straight for the other end of field, 

The dogs tumultuous ran, 

And after them not far behind, 

Came panting every man. 

But when the dogs reached t’other tree 
They called another halt, 

And round it tore with dire intent, 

Of murderous assault. 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


5 ^ 

The dogs were barking as before, 

And looking up the tree, 

As if some beast before their eyes, 

They plainly there could see. 

The men rushed up to be in time, 

To see the fearful fight, 

Though deeming that they ran some risk 
In dome so that nmht. 

o o 


But just as they approached the tree, 
Away the dogs did burst, 

Right back again unto the place 
Where they had treed it first. 

The dogs they made another halt, 
And bellowed as before, 

The hunters were surprised at this, 
But hurried back once more. 

Again as they approached the tree, 
Where stood the bellowing pack, 

Right to the other tree again 
The furious dogs ran back. 

Thus back and forth from tree to tree 
Ran dogs and men that night; 

The men could nothing see at all, 

Although the moon shown bright. 


THE BEWITCHED DOGS. 


53 


What made the dogs behave that way 
The men could not surmise; 

They never saw the like before, 

With all their mortal eyes. 

The men grew horrified with fear, 

And knew not what to do; 

And some began to think it was 
A ghost they did pursue. 

The matter more and more to them 
Mysterious did appear, 

Till some one happened to remark 
That witches might be near. 

o 


Then all at once they all agreed 
Without a single “No,” 

The dogs were all bewitched or they 
Had never acted so. 

John Peters said he never was 
A superstitious man, 

But what he knew he knew as well 
As any body can. 

That dogs could be bewitched he knew, 
For he had seen it done, 

Thou gh witches now were scarce, he said 
He’d surely known of one. 


54 


MOSS’S POEMS. 


Once on a time he had a dog, 

A dog of splendid breed, 

Which barked at an old woman once, 
Who was a witch indeed. 

For everybody said she was, 

People that wouldn't lie, 

She could make cows give bloody milk, 
By merely passing by. 

His dog soon after barking at 
This vile old witch one day, 

Took sick and spewed green ribbons from 
His mouth where he did lay. 

And having heard John’s story true 
Of what had come to pass, 

None dared to hint, if any thought, 

The dog had eaten grass. 

Then up spoke Jerry Jobs, and said, 

To him the thing was clear, 

Their dogs had passed that night right by 
The door of Mrs. Speer. 

Old Mrs. Speer was an old dame, 

Who with her daughters two, 

Lived in the neighborhood, just as 
Poor people mostly do. 



Our Grandsires then, brave hearted came 
The forests to subdue.” 

























































































“DISCRETION IS THE BETTER PART OF VALOR.” 






















DANGER NEAR 
















































































































































THE BEWITCHED DOGS . 


55 


If she was ever beautiful, 

Her beauty all had fled, 

Her daughters from gay girls had grown 
To be old maids instead. 

To make a living for themselves 
Was hard enough to do; 

No son, no husband for support, 

This world in passing through. 

They had been thought a harmless set 
Of people poor and old, 

But now it was found out a last, 

That they were witches bold. 

These men began to think what they 
Had in their Bibles read, 

Though Holy Book or judgment came 
Not often in their head. 

They all remembered the Good Book 
Said witches should be slain, 

But how the killing should be done 
Was not exactly plain. 

One said a witch might thus be killed, 
For so his grandma said; 

A silver bullet shot into 

Her picture killed her dead. 


5* 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


With one consent they did adopt 
The silver bullet plan; 

And soon it should be carried out, 
For so said every man. 

The neighborhood was all aroused, 
The story spread around, 

’Twas now a fact beyond dispute, 
That witches did abound. 

The hunters by appointment met 
Upon an afternoon, 

To slay old Mrs. Speer instead 
Of possum or raccoon. 

They got a shilling in the crowd, 
And pounded into shape, 

And loaded up a gun and swore 
The witch should not escape. 

Joe Herrick took a piece of chalk, 
And went to the barn door, 

And made a picture of the witch, 
Who soon should be no more 

Considered as a work of art 

The thing was none the best, 

But answered now as well as if 
It had been done by West.* 


'Benjamin West, an American painter. 






‘Joe Herrick took a piece of chalk 
And went to the barn door 
And made a picture of the witch 
Who soon should be no more.” 





















































































































































































The gun he rested on a stump, 

Took aim—and—hanged awav 





























































































































THE BEWITCHED DOGS. 


57 


But who could now be found to pull 
The trigger of that gun; 

’Twas passed from hand to hand; the men 
Declined it every one. 

They were convinced their duty ’twas 
To kill old Mrs. Speer, 

But conscience gnawed a little when 
The time of death drew near. 

At length Bill Dowler swore that he 
Himself that witch would slay ; 

The gun he rested on a stump, 

Took aim—and—banged away. 

They ventured up to the barn door, 

And took a careful peep, 

And found therein a bullet hole, 

And some began to weep. 

Right where the ball the picture pierced, 
(The hole was in the breast), 

The witch would have a bullet hole 
And would no more molest. 

These brave men now began to feel 
A heavy sense of dread; 

O! what if they should go and find 
The poor old woman dead. 


* 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


Night was at hand and so they went 
A delegation brave 

To see if poor old Mrs. Speer 
Was ready for the grave. 

They found her sitting in the door 
Mending her petticoat; 

And if she had a bullet hole 
She didn’t seem to know’t. 

They told her they were looking round 
For a stray pig or so; 

She said if any were about 
The fact she didn’t know. 

Though they had not accomplished quite 
The deed they’d undertook, 

Their disappointment made them wear 
A good deal happier look. 

On going home they heard the dogs 
Begin to bark and howl, 

Around that same old tree, and there 
They saw a great big owl. 

The owl was sitting on the tree, 

And eyed the dogs below; 

But when the men approached, the owl 
To t’other tree did go. 
























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THE BEWITCHED DOGS. 


59 

The dogs pursued and acted much 
The same as on that night; 

The men looked on awhile, and then 
Began to swear outright. 

’Twas clear what made the men to fear 
And dogs to run and howl, 

Was nothinsf ’neath the sun or moon, 

o 7 

But that old booby owl. 







NOT CAUGHT YET 


“miuimiii 
















































































* A ; ftri? 





l j i 


f&s'W&Ssk 


3aSk&. 




“For here 
Where 


I look upon full many a site, 

I have sat and held the baited hook.*' 






























































THE OLD FAMILIAR STREAM 

































































THE OLD FAMILIAR STREAM. 


J^Jere flows the stream upon whose banks I spent 
Full many a joyous day when I was young; 

In rapture oft along these banks I went 

As o’er my heart these scenes their magic flung. 

These gurgling waters to my ear address 
A language not by others understood; 

And there is an entrancing loveliness 

In all I see where rolls this sparkling flood. 

For here I look upon full many a site, 

Where I have sat and held the baited hook, 

With countenance with expectation bright, 

In my impatient hand as the line shook. 

61 




62 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


I would not be a stranger to the joy, 

The exultation of the bounding breast, 

As out upon the grass the fisher boy 

Flings his bright flouncing prize, at length possessed 

He who with silent joy has watched the blue 
Waters that deepen ’neath the shelving root 
Of sycamore or maple, can anew, 

At times, feel through his frame the glad thrill shoot. 

Aye, the wild rapture which would fain be felt 
By many who have long forsaken all 
The fancies in the childish heart that dwelt. 

Who recollect, but cannot feel their thrall. 

How little does the real present find 

In what surrounds me, differing to the eye 
From that which mem’ry pictures to the mind, 

But things before me as remembered lie. 


O! with what joy I now pursue the walks 
Sacred to reveries of my careless youth, 
Where still the genius of contentment stalks 

In easy thoughtfulness o’er some fond truth. 

Upon the rugged rocks which yonder meet 
My eye, to gladden it with memories 
That ravish the long absent heart they greet, 

Weird pictures of the past my eye still sees. 


‘Here flows the stream upon who<e banks 1 spent 
Full many a joyous day when 1 was young.” 





































o 


How beautifully bright is the fair shore. 
This hallowed vale of beauty unto m 







THE OLD FAMILIAR STREAM. 63 

And where I look on the inviting shade, 

That darkens ’neath the foliage of yon tree, 

My seat for many a happy hour I’ve made, 

While murmured this bright stream in front of me. 

And thence beheld yon wooded mountain lift 
Its summit to the clouds above it driv’n, 

And saw with rapture its dark foliage drift 

In gleaming billows to the breath of heaven. 

It was a glorious sight; and now I turn 

My eyes to the enchanting spectacle, 

While something doth of the old rapture burn 
Again within me, which I would not quell. 

How beautifully bright is the fair shore, 

This hallowed vale of beauty unto me; 

I look upon it now as oft before; 

To feeling’s fountain how it hath the key! 

How as I pass along from place to place, 

Fresh memories flash on the enchanted soul 

With a renewed energy. I trace 

My paths of other times where’er I stroll. 

And yonder once more flashes on my view 

The place where oft my comrades bathed, and I; 

Its depth is tokened by the fearful blue, 

And stillness of the waters there that lie. 


64 MOSS'S POEMS . 

And here I am again beneath the tree 

Whose shaggy bark hath a familiar look; 

Its nodding branches seem to welcome me 

Back to my bathing pool in this wild nook. 

And if my foot I never more had set 

Upon the shore of this delightful stream, 
My heart had been all powerless to forget 

Its wild sensations in life’s morning dream. 


But let me turn my gladdened eyes once more, 

To yon steep bank which I have often climbed 
With pleasure, which its looks in part restore, 

As now again I view its charms undimmed. 


But while I wander thus along this stream, 

My mind recalls an incident or so, 

Which flash upon my memory like a gleam 
Of sunlight in a shade still left to glow. 

For, standing here as evening stole apace, 

In fond forgetfulness of mood, I heard 
Besides the waves that in this lonely place 
Made melody, the pinions of a bird. 

I looked around—it had alit; alone 

It sat upon that limb that still waves o’er 
Its native stream; it was a dove had flown, 

As if to seek its favorite branch once more. 


But let me turn my gladdened eyes once more. 
To yon steep bank which I have often climbed. 
















































THE OLD FAMILIAR STREAM. 6j 

I saw it long and most intently gaze 

Upon the water, still without its mate ; 

It saw me venture near without amaze, 

But there it still in listless silence sate. 

I watched it for a while, and then forsook 

The place; but after some days came again ; 

But on that branch, still gazing on the brook, 

The dove in loneliness did yet remain. 

But as I crossed the stream here, I beheld 
A dead dove in the running water lie ; 

Its lifeless wings flapped, as the waves impelled 

Upon their course, swept o’er them with vain sigh. 

I left the place, and saw my bird no more, 

But saw a boy soon after, and by him 

Was told, he there with stone some days before 
One of two birds had knocked into the stream. 

But let me turn from this and seek the rock, 

Which must be near me, upon which I sate, 

And picked the initials of my name, with block 

And sharpened nail, and earnest thought elate. 

Yes, here it is ; the initials of my name 
Are on it still; but here are sentences 

Around them cut; but surely not the same 

Hand has done all. What words, indeed, are these! 


66 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


Ah! now I recollect these words were mine, 

And mem’ry whispers faintly ’twas my hand 
That placed them here ; as I o’er them recline, 

I seem to feel the stroke of viewless wand. 

And all I see hath sure been much to me ; 

And shall be more when I am far away; 
For all shall grow up in my memory, 

And my affections, never to decay. 

And as I turn me from the cherished scenes 
Of my delighted childhood, how the heart 
Throbs wildly o’er what from it nothing weans, 
Remembered joys, too soon that did depart 
















TIIE ROSE AND THE PINK 







































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































EDMUND ROSE. 


^ sometimes take into consideration 
The very singular phenomenon, 

Which shows itself in that sad odds of station, 
Which young men occupy with those upon 
Whom they all fix their eyes of admiration; 

I mean the fair sex, but no certain one: 

It is a very curious thing indeed 
That equal merit don’t alike succeed. 

But then in what that merit does consist, 

Perhaps we fail to understand aright, 

Or else the mode would not have been so missed, 
In putting ourselves in a proper light, 

To suit the female eye, or to enlist 

Her feelings on our side, as sure we might, 

If we but understood all things connected 
With success in that way before rejected. 

67 










68 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


I don’t pretend the reason to divine, 

Why one young man, possessing equal sense, 
And honor and integrity, can’t shine, 

With many others, who of their pretense 
To either, give no proof. Things which combine, 

In any manner, giving no offense, 

To illustrate, or throw light upon this subject, 

Might not be vainly sought for such an object. 

But while upon this topic it may be 
As well a little story to relate, 

That may perhaps enable us to see 

The matter in a light which previous fate 
Has unto us denied. This mystery, 

Though it we must with things most common rate, 
Thereby may undergo some slight solution, 

And we be helped to arrive at some conclusion. 

There was a youth residing upon earth, 

I needn’t mention just exactly where, 

Save that some twenty years or so from birth, 

He had expended in this world of care. 

He was a good deal liable to mirth, 

But more so of that meditative air, 

Which marks the man of sense and not of fashion, 
Who in this world of ours resolves to dash on, 

His name was Edmund Rose, and he was made 
After a fashion worthy admiration, 


EDMUND ROSE. 


69 

His features regular; his form displayed 
An easy elegance which imitation 
Might vainly strive to copy, and a shade 

Of countenance which spoke of contemplation; 
In short he was a handsome gentleman ; 

In person as in mind, as e’er we scan. 

He had received an education, such 

As a sound understanding would approve; 

To dress he paid some little, not too much 
Attention; his, too, was a heart of love. 

Keenly alive was he to every touch 

Of good or ill, yet nothing seemed to move 
His mind particularly; for he knew, 

Full well how best to keep such things from view. 

By all who knew him he was well respected; 

There scarce could be by the most captious eye. 

A blemish in his character detected ; 

But yet from some cause, I cannot say why, 

He by the females rather was rejected, 

Though he was quite as pleasing to the eye, 

As many others who with perfect ease 
The modest females’ taste contrive to please. 

But neighbor unto Edmund was a tailor, 

With snub nose, and with bullet head, possessed, 
Perhaps, of the refinement of a sailor; 

Yet in a kind of flippant way he dressed, 


70 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


And with his smiles and nods could be prevailer, 
O’er woman, who could scarcely shield her breast 
From his seducing arts. Then, he appeared 
So little, as some people will be—“sheered.” 

Well, it so happened that an apple cutting 

Came off in the immediate neighborhood, 
Where lived our heroes before mentioned, putting 
The gentlemen and ladies in a mood 
Which makes the eylids less inclined to shutting, 
Than do some others. Be it understood 
Our heroes were invited to attend, 

And at their neighbor’s house the evening spend. 

They spent an hour or so in paring fruit, 

And chattering wordy nonsense to each other; 
And then all things were cleared away to suit 
The company’s convenience, that no bother 
Be underwent by many a slippered foot 

Of damsel brought out by her beau or brother, 
In going through the other exercises, 

Such as the youthful mind so greatly prizes. 

Now I shall not pretend to show the reason, 

But then, though Edmund played his part as well 
As could have been desired on this occasion, 

He did not, as he saw himself, excel 
With the fair sex; for a designed evasion 
Of him that night was quite perceptible, 


EDMUND ROSE. 


7i 


Perhaps by none but him, upon their part, 
Especially the one that had his heart. 

Tis really beyond a doubt, with none 

He met with very great success, yet he 
Seemed not to know the ladies strove to shun 
His company; for well he knew ’twould be 
Unwise to show himself at aueht there done 
Offended; for with cold civility, 

That had in it sufficient of respect , 

He was received, but what he wished was lacked. 

And what appeared to him most singular 

That night, was this young tailor’s great success, 
Whose name was Henry Wolfe; the leading star 
Of gallantry was he; the backwardness, 

Which troubles most young men too much by far, 
He had o’ercome entirely, and no less 
Of speech that hesitancy which prevents 
Expressions voluble, though lacking sense. 

And further, the young tailor was by all, 

Or most, deemed somewhat of a libertine; 

At least the gossip had not failed to call 

Attention to some stories which will win 
Their way into society, and fall 

Upon the ear at times, though they begin 
From nothing. They of course were disbelieved 
By all girls, by the way he was received. 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


7 2 

Now Edmund was the counterpart of this; 

If his desires e’er threatened to o’erleap 
Their proper boundaries, and do amiss, 

Unto himself he did the matter keep; 

But this arose undoubtedly from his 

Knowledge of woman’s breast, which was less deep, 
Than it was of scholastic things; yet he 
In woman most to give him joy could see. 

There was a lady there whose name was Nancy, 
That made on Edmund’s heart a deep impression; 
Particularly did she strike his fancy; 

For she appeared to be in the possession 
Of every grace that charms like necromancy, 

And he resolved on making a confession 
Of all he felt, to her, that very night, 

If his advances she seemed not to slight. 

But Nancy seemed to take a liking to 

Friend Henry Wolfe, not Edmund; like the rest, 
Her preference was for the young tailor, who 

Seemed with the affections of the ladies blest 
In a remarkable degree ; none knew 

Of this the reason, nor could it be guessed. 

All this caused Edmund when the plays broke up, 
Home to return with disappointed hope. 

Yet he was not discouraged altogether, 

Though he could not conjecture what could be 


EDMUND ROSE. 


73 


The reason why he had but cloudy weather, 

While others in the sunshine he could see; 

But then ere long he hoped to have another, 
Perhaps a better, opportunity 
To prove himself by no means the inferior 
Of Henry, whose success was much superior. 

’Twas not long after this when Edmund met 
With Henry, who, supported by his friend, 
Endeavored for some length of time to get 
Edmund to join them, as they did intend 
That night a melon patch to rob, nor let 

One stay; for there was none the patch to fend, 
Which to a widow woman did belong, 

Unconscious all of their intended wrong. 

Edmund not only did refuse to go 

With them, but censured them for meditating 
An act so base, severely; he could show 
But little lenity to vice; but hating 
All that is mean and hateful here below, 

He feared not to denounce it, though creating 
Towards him a strong dislike in Henry’s mind, 

As he at present was as we shall find. 

This circumstance made Henry Wolfe resolve 
To be avenged on Edmund the first chance 
Which he could get; the thoughts which did revolve 
Within his bosom changed his countenance 


74- 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


To that pale, hating aspect which we solve 
As the intent no further to advance 
In friendship till some difficulty be 
Settled in some way quite agreeably. 

But he was too much of a coward ever 
To openly attack even any one, 

Yet he did most assiduously endeavor 

To cast some stigma Edmunds name upon; 
But as an opportunity was never 

Presented when it could be safely done 
For several days or weeks, he kept the matter 
Unto himself, which made him none the fatter. 

Twas not long till a certain family 

Which was about to leave the neighborhood, 
Concluded ere they left that there should be 

A party at their house where the youth could 
Assemble, and enjoy the company 

Of other, for the evening, where there would 
Be placed upon their freedom less restraint, 

Than when at church they must affect the saint. 

On this occasion too our heroes were 

Called out to enjoy themselves, with many more, 
And mingle freely with the general stir, 

Where all an aspect of excitement wore, 
Henry’s appearance he did not defer, 

Like Edmund, until late, but was before 













S’POSE YOU KNOW EDMUND RoSE ? 






































































































EDMUND ROSE. 


75 


The company; among the very first, 

That he might get to see the best and worst. 

Seeing that Edmund was not there and knowing 
He was expected to attend, he thought 
’Twould be an opportunity for throwing ' 

Out some insinuations which would not 
His rival in a favoring light be showing. 

The ladies and the gentlemen had got 
All seated in a certain room where they 
Could chat a while ere they began to play. 

Things being in this condition, Henry turned 

Upon his seat, and thus a friend addressed: 

*“ S’pose you know Edmund Rose ? ” “ Yes, I have learned 
Something about him from what’s been expressed 
Concerning him by others; he has earned 
A reputation worthy of the best, 

I understand.—I reckon he’s well known 
To you, his residence being near your own?” 

“Yes, I profess to be somewhat acquainted 

With him, as with most others living near; 

But I presume his character is painted 

In colors for the case somewhat too clear, 

And though I am not with the practice tainted 
Of speaking of my neighbors, ’tis to fear 
He’s not exactly what he’s thought to be 
By many people in society. 


7 6 MOSS'S POEMS. 

On these remarks being made, the ladies, who 

Were seated just behind the speakers, ceased 
Their conversation all at once, and threw 

Themselves, without appearing in the least 
Displeased, a listening attitude into. 

Henry went on, while there was an increased 
Attention to his words:—“Of Edmund Rose 
I might some interesting facts disclose.” 

“ In short, not many seem to be aware 
Of what he’d do, if opportunity 
Be given, with the unsuspecting fair, 

With ladies his affected modesty, 

I have observed, I’ll not say how nor where, 

But hides the feelings which I find that he 
Will gratify by any means whatever, 

But slyly to do all he will endeavor.” 

“Undoubtedly he’s one of those who hide 

Their natural bent of mind with greatest skill; 
I could not be persuaded to confide 
In his integrity, for much of ill 
I am convinced, does in his heart reside.” 

To all this such replies were made as will 
Proceed from most folks in that sanctioning way, 
When listening to what others choose to say. 

But now the dogs to bark afresh were heard 
At some new comer; many looked to see 


EDMUND ROSE. 


77 


Bv whom the group conversing had been stirred; 

But it was shortly ascertained to be 
Edmund, about whom lately many a word, 

For the tongue will be now and then set free, 
Had been dropped in the hearing of all present, 
Which was not altogether the most pleasant. 

The usual salutations passed between 

The one just now arrived, and those already 
Assembled in the parlor to be seen, 

And then all things again became quite steady. 
The best of feelings seemed to exist between 
The various individuals there, who had a 
Fine chance for some delightful recreation 
Which greatly quickens the young heart’s pulsation. 

But strange to say, of all the gentlemen 

Present on the occasion, there was none 
Better received than Edmund, who till then 

In love had had no great success, which one 
Might deem a little strange, and more so, when 
Among the spoken words and actions done, 

We recollect the very sad reflections 
Of Henry, when before there were objections. 

He found no difficulty, none at all, 

In getting his advances well received 
Among the ladies, who appeared to fall 

In love with him, though scarce to be believed, 


78 MOSS'S POEMS. 

Unanimously; even to him no small 

Affection was evinced by her who grieved 
His heart no little heretofore, his Nancy, 

Who had so lately taken to him a fancy. 

All this is very strange, no less to me, 

It seems so, than to Henry, who supposed, 

From what that night before the company, 

He had in no conniving way disclosed, 

Things would be otherwise; however, we 

Will sometimes meet with things by which we’re posed, 
That disappoint our hopes and expectations, 

Contrary to all previous indications. 

And when the company broke up at last, 

Which was not until middling late that night, 

Or early the next morning, for ’twas past 

The midway notch considerably; the flight 
Of time is always so confounded fast, 

When all vexatious things are out of sight— 
Edmund, as I was just about to mention, 

Took Nancy off, according to intention. 

And while on his way home, well satisfied, 

He felt the deepest gratitude towards heaven, 

On which he had from early youth relied, 

And which he thanked for every blessing given; 

And he resolved anew, upon the side 

Of virtue to stand out, nor to be driven 


EDMUND ROSE. 


79 


To compromise the strictest rectitude; 

Success he thought was always for the good . 

He felt at last that his good education, 

The strictest moral conduct , and so forth, 

Had met w r ith a most just appreciation 

Which is of course the consequence of worth, 
Except when otherwise , in every nation, 

He thought at least the ladies upon earth, 
Whate’er is true of men could not endure 
Aught that was not in all things chaste and pure. 

But whether he was right or wrong I leave 
For others to decide for I’m so little 
Experienced in such things, and it would grieve 
My spirit to be the least jot or tittle 
In my decision wrong. I can’t conceive, 

However, that it would be right to settle 
The point by blaming these young folks so gay, 
For all is well that ends well—so they say. 









las! old Charley’s dead and gone, 
That splendid old gray hoss; 
He lived, however, till his death 
Was not esteemed much loss. 


He was a fine old pachyderm, 

Of one score years and one, 

Who could throughout his youthful days 
Like any killdeer run. 

But now he’s to the boneyard gone, 
Where his forefathers went; 

They ‘snigged’ him with a log chain off, 
Ere scarce his breath was spent. 


No ‘useless coffin’ kept the crows 
From picking out his eyes, 
And not a shovel full of dirt 
Did keep away the flies. 


Si 



82 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


When he was young and full of life, 

He was exceeding spry, 

And constantly kept looking round 
For an excuse to shy. 

But after he got old, he grew 
A little more sedate, 

And went in spite of dogging, at 
A sober sort of gait. 

He was a ‘knowing critter,’ and 
Before a day he’d ploughed, 

He knew exactly all about 

The proper way to crowd. 

And when, according to his views, 

Too big a load he had, 

He shook his head and switched his tail, 
To show that he was mad. 

And though he was a peaceful brute, 
’Twas often of him said, 

While he supposed it only hay, 

That he ‘ ate off his head. ’ 

When young he bore his master off 
To see the ladies fine, 

And at each proper time and place, 

Was taught to cut a shine. 



“And knew exactly where to cut a shine .” 
















































‘‘The women rode him so about, 
And made him such a hack ” 










































THE OLD GRA Y HORSE . 


But after he got old, he drew 
The rubber on his speed, 

And when he went abroad, he found 
His neighbors scarce of feed 

He had one eye knocked out because, 
One frosty morn, ’tis said, 

He didn’t feel at all inclined 
To pull an empty sled. 

The other went out of itself, 

Nobody could tell why, 

And so he had to smell his way, 
Possessed of nary eye. 

The women rode him so about, 

And made him such a hack, 

The flesh and cuticle came with 
The saddle from his back. 

But with a piece of petticoat 

They patched him up again; 

His masters thought he happy felt, 

For he did not complain. 

He ran against the stable door, 

And broke down his right hip, 

And lost the power to elevate 
His ponderous under lip. 


84 MOSS'S POEMS . 

Whene’er he took the bots his boss 

An old Dutch doctor got, 

Who scored his upper lip , and thus 
Killed every single bot! 

He took an itching in his tail 
Which made him rub it off; 

And so to save the little left, 

They tied him to the trough. 

His legs got less and less above, 

And bigger down below; 

He gradually went to the ground, 
Where all of us must go. 

’Twas thus he lived, and thus at length, 
This fine old hoss did die. 

The buzzards came, by bellyfulls, 

To carry him on high! 






THE RETROSPECT. 


1 

J thought myself strong in the joy of my youth, 
And rushed in the zeal of my heart, 

To the help of my God in defense of the truth, 
And bore in the conflict my part. 

2 

But now with my courage and vigor all spent, 
And vanished the days of my prime, 

I perceive as I lay in the hospital tent, 

’Twas God helping me all the time. 


3 

How oft have I almost concluded to lay, 

My armor and weapons aside, 

And join with the foe for a moment in play, 
When I felt his keen spear in my side. 

4 

Then anew the conviction came into my heart, 
As I writhed but was not overawed, 

That eternal hostility ever must part 
From Satan’s, the children of God. 


*5 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


How oft have I thought in the pride of my heart, 
Great work was accomplished by me ; 

But now from the field of my toil as I part, 

I plainly its nothingness see. 

6 

I oft in the solemn review of my life. 

My bitter complainings recall, 

And plainly perceive that the sofrow and strife 
Of events were most needed of all. 



THE OLD TATTERED COAT. 


1 

^\wTy old tattered coat, will it last me till spring? 
dJ Till the birds on the branches begin for to sing, 
To sing of the bright summer days soon to come, 
When they can find bugs for their cherubs at home. 

2 

My old tattered coat, Oh! my old tattered coat! 

No wonder on you that my heart does so dote; 

So long did you faithfully stick to my back, 

Before you consented to go all to rack. 

3 

I’ve worn you, and worn you for so many years; 
On these old ragged sleeves I have wiped many tears, 
Till my heart became cheerful, and I could renew 
The battle of life, finding comfort in you. 

4 

With my coat on my back, and a thought in my brain. 
How little I cared for the wind or the rain ; 

A friend at my back that was true at all cost, 

When we went out together to fight with Jack Frost. 


*7 


THE OLD TATTERED COAT. 88 

5 

This coat made me feel once as rich as a Jew, 
When its fabric substantial around me I drew; 

But with heart breaking anguish its tatters I’ll doff, 
When they all turn to feathers and wings to fly off. 

6 

My little dead darling said, “Papa, I’m cold;’’ 

Then around her this coat I did lovingly fold. 

She smiled in my face and did cease to complain, 
And went off to sleep—but ne’er woke up again. 

7 

I feared when I bought it some money I’d lost, 
Though the storekeeper swore that he sold it at cost; 
But now that so long it has kept off the snow, 

My heart is all anguish to think it must go. 

8 

The women are eyeing my old tattered coat, 

And thinking the time is not very remote. 

When they’ll seize it for carpet rags. No! they shall not! 
No foot shall tread on it while life I have got. 

9 

I’ll patch it and darn it as long as I can, 

Nor blush at the meeting of woman or man, 

And when from my body my spirit shall float, 

I’ll only cast from me another old coat. 

10 

My old tattered coat, if it lasts me till spring, 

On the wind to the birds I will let it take wino\ 
Let them build their nests out of it then for their young, 
And in my shirt sleeves I will list to their song. 








“Once more in the 
In nature’s 


deep forest’s gloom ; once 
dreary solitudes alone.” 


more 





















































































































THE RAMBLE. 


^J^nce more in the deep forests gloom; once more 
In nature’s dreary solitudes alone; 

Where the high winds amidst the dark woods roar, 
And I may listen to their sad, deep tone, 

With a strange gladness; for not all of grief 
Is that unearthly mood when we are thrown 
Back on the dreary past without relief. 

How strangely beautiful is all I see ; 

The stirring branches and the sunlight brief, 
Which brightly flashes through some vacancy 
Made by the boughs which play in never ceasing glee. 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


The beauty of the scene which overpowers 

Th’ admiring eye which gazes still untired, 

And the deep blush of newly opened flowers 
So gently moving, well might be admired; 

And dear the whispering of the winds which play 
With the bright locks of the hoar mountain, fired 
With life all boundless, as they float away. 

The heart feels less alone in these wild haunts 
Of nature—thought and feeling, might I say— 
Than when in thoughtless crowds the full heart pants 
For liberty to play at will with its wild wants. 

111 . 

Far from the haunts of men, to be alone 

In the deep forest, and to wander through 
The blooming gardens which have never known 
The hand of mortal; nor for falling dew 

Was ever water sprinkled from the pail— 

Must be delightful; and I love to view 
In the wild woods, the boughs bend to the gale 
That sweeps in joyance by; then the free mind 
O’er its clay tenement seems to prevail, 
Unconscious of its burden as the wind 
Of the dark cloud it bears, still strolling unconfined. 


THE RAMBLE . 


Here let me wander, where I can behold 

What is so pleasing. Here the heart no more 
Feels pained that others to its throb is cold, 
And all forgets that coldness to deplore. 

But to that dark gray rock now let me go, 
That in its dreary loneness lies before 
My contemplating gaze, and seems to show 

By that blind aspect which around it hangs, 
That it indeed hath long withstood the slow 
Wear of the elements, nor felt the pangs 
That cling to human breasts, as from a serpents fangs. 


v. 

Lo! there the giant oak that o’er it leans 
All heavily, jnd further yet extends 
Its massy branches. It a moment weans 
The eyes from all besides, and freely lends 
A charm to the enchanting scenery, 

And to the heart a thrill of gladness sends; 
For it is sweet in solitude to be, 

Where we may with a satisfaction deep 
Behold the forest’s shades lie tranquilly 
Upon the bosom of the earth, asleep, 

Save when the forest stirs to winds which o’er it sweep. 




MOSS'S POEMS. 


VI. 

The brightness flashing from the sunlit leaves, 

Which here and there gleam gladly on the view; 
Which, when first witnessed, one almost believes 
To be some passing spirit which then flew 
All lightly past him upon shining wing, 

Is very beautiful and pleasing to 
The spirit, which was but a drooping thing 
Over its sorrows faintingly and low, 

Till untamed natures livingness did bring 
A new life to the heart, and the blood’s flow 
Grows light and free as air, and thoughts awakened glow. 

VI i. 

The gentle dalliance of the playful wind 

With the bright, leafy branches which reach out 
After its coolness, as if they did find 
A happiness in being tossed about 

All in the chainless, roving element, 

Sporting at will with all things in its route, 
Makes the heart feel as boundless and unspent, 

And the eye with like freedom gaze upon 
The various charms we see confusedly blent, 
Whose light upon the mind breaks like the dawn 
Of morning on the sight, till darkness all is gone. 


THE RAMBLE. 


93 


VI 11. 

But while I wander, musing on this slope 
Falling into the darkly winding vale 
On one hand, on the other, like youth’s hope. 
Mounting with boldness as if ’twould prevail 

O’er intervening height, with clouds to blend, 
And lift aloft its head where man would fail 
To tread thereon; and viewing it, our thoughts ascend 
To things beyond the senses narrow sphere. 
How pleasing here our trackless way to wend 
With natures charms alone to woo us here, 

And when for the time being nought seems half so dear. 


And when to that lone height I turn my eyes, 

And when upon those jutting rocks I gaze, 

I feel within a sense of might arise, 

As if the difficulties which there raise 

Their dark impediments against the foot 
That e’er should seek their unfrequented ways, 

Give to the limbs the vigor to dispute 

With those dark pines, the privilege to rest 
Solely upon those savage rocks so mute. 

An eloquence which cannot be expressed 

In words, they breathe,which lives and burns within the breast 







The bright king of da)' is retiring to rest. 































EVENING SONG. 


the bright king of day is retiring to rest, 
But still he is throwing 
O’er hills that are glowing, 

A smile like a sire’s on the son that is blest. 


O! ’tis to the innocent bosom a time 
For banishing sadness, 

And drinking in gladness, 

That drives from the soul every dark thought of crime. 

How pleasing the charm o’er all nature that’s thrown. 
As slowly the glimmer 
Of day becomes dimmer, 

And beauties delight us at mid-day unknown. 

The shadows that lengthen from every tall tree 
Ere long will be ended, 

For soon they’ll be blended 
With shadows of darkness thrown over the lea. 


95 


q6 MOSS'S POEMS . 

How happy the gazer that stands on the hill, 

And views at his leisure, 

With infinite pleasure, 

The sun bid adieu to the sparkle of rill. 

How sweet the emotion that swells in his breast, 
The glow of soft feeling, 

As twilight is stealing 

Insensibly over all natures green vest. 

The deep crimson blush of yon beautiful clouds, 
Like banners flung over 
The hills that they cover, 

The sun’s fading glory in loveliness shrouds. 

But now has the sun at last vanished from sight; 
His glance has forsaken 
The eye that has taken 

Its last look of fond admiration to night. 

The sombre of twilight comes on by degrees ; 

Ev’n new the dim shadows 
That rest on the meadows 

Envelop the hills with their tall, gloomy trees. 

Yet happy it makes my heart feel now to know 
Such gloom as this never 
Continues forever, 

But soon will give place to the morning’s bright glow. 





THE DEADENED TREE. 




















































































































































































THE DEADENED TREE. 


Behold that deadened tree! 

That now puts forth its leaves so green and fair, 
And seems so full of life, while yet we see 
Death’s girdle there ! 

Alas! that noble tree! 

The woodman’s axe hath girdled it, and now 
To death so soon, though glorious still to see, 

It needs must bow. 

Cut off from all supply 
Of life-bestowing sap, yet still alive, 

Now on self only having to rely, 

Not long ’twill thrive. 

Wounded to death, but still 
Unconscious of its doom it smiles abroad, 

Like giddy sinner dreaming not of ill, 

Or wrath of God. 


97 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


How like the branch but late 
Dissevered from the parent vine, that tree; 
O! may it never be in its estate 
A type of me! 

Not that its wounds so great , 

But that it is incurable , I sigh 
To see it, for though now so all elate 
It must —must die. 

How like to man that tree, 

With some incurable disease attacked, 

Still left a little while apparently 
In health to act. 

Or like some church, perhaps, 

With doctrine and with ordinances right; 
With little to the eye that speaks its lapse 
From spiritual might. 











PETE SHEPARD’S WEDDING. 








































































PETE SHEPARD’S WEDDING. 


gray haired groom of sixty-five 
Has won his youthful love at last. 

The fruit kept from him till he could derive 
No pleasure from its taste. 

“Even gold may come a day too late," 

And love’s delights may be deferred, 
Until the sense o’er long compelled to wait, 
Can never more be stirred. 

Philosophy is not enough, 

To reconcile our tortured hearts 
Unto the stern decree that doth rebuff 
Till power t’ enjoy departs. 


99 


100 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


’Twas thus with Peter Shepard; he 

His charming Betsy greatly loved, 

When he was young and full of life, and free; 
And she as loving proved. 

But merely for the sake of show 
He courted other girls as well, 

And was with many an accepted beau, 

About his native dell. 

It somehow so turned out at last 

That Pete was to another wed— 

To one he loved not. Now he was downcast, 
And wished that he was dead. 

But rallying with his manhood’s strength, 

He made resolve to love his bride 

By force of will; but his heart’s grief at length 
O’er mastered all his pride. 

The one he loved and might have had, 

Was married to another man, 

And lived nigh neighbors to him, seeming glad 
Life’s work to do and plan. 

To drown his grief Pete Shepard took 
To whiskey and wild company; 

But soon discovered that he need not look 
For comfort in a spree. 


PETE SHEPARD'S WEDDING. 


ioi 


At last he made resolve to go 

Where he could never see again 
The one who had occasioned all his woe 
Because now loved in vain. 

They lived apart—almost forgot 

Each other, until both were old; 

But in the meantime it had been their lot 
To suffer grief untold. 

At last Pete Shepard lost his wife, 

And he had lost life’s energy; 

And Betsy’s husband bade adieu to life, 
And both again were free. 


They sought each other and were bound 
In matrimonial bonds at last; 

But in each other each had only found 
A shadow of the past! 













THE HUNTER’S DREAM 



















THE HARP OF AGE. 


he songs I sung when I was young 
Were light and gay, 

But now that I am old and gray 
My harp’s unstrung. 

When love’s sweet thrall was all in all 
Unto my heart, 

The strain spontaneous oft would start, 
And rise and fall. 

Would rise and fall, yes, that is all 
That comes to man, 

However wisely he may plan 
To ’scape the fall. 

The pulse of age I may engage 
To shake the trill 
Of passion, but no longer will 
Its fever rage. 

103 


/Of 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


Remembrance brings the golden things 
Of boyhood back, 

But they have flown and left no track 
Behind their wings. 


The dreams I dreamed, the things that seemed 
In youth so bright, 

Have lost their warmth, though still the light 
Is left that streamed. 

At first in cage the bird in rage 
Could see but bars, 

But looking through , at last the stars 
Appear to age! 

With all my power my harp once more 
I’ll strike anew; 

And pass with song of triumph to 
The other shore. 



MARY’S PUR 




ary had a little pup 

His name, she called him Priest, 
He went wherever Mary went, 

When that was to a feast. 


Now Mary petted little Priest 
Till he quite saucy got, 

But when there was some work to do, 
Why he would do it not. 

And when stray dogs and greedy hogs 
Poor Mary’s patience tried, 

And she cried ‘Catch ’em,’ Priest would run 
Under the bed and hide. 

Now Mary’s pa, though good and kind, 
Was pleased to send her out 
Into a dreary wilderness,* 

Where fierce beasts prowled about. 


*05 


* Rev. 12 : 16. 









io6 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


The bear, the lion and the wolf, 

And sly contriving fox, 

And the venemous snake along her path, 
Were hid among the rocks. 

Priest went along; and Mary thought 
He’d surely give ’em chase; 

But no; he only kept his eye 
On Mary’s luncheon case . 

When lion roared or wolf would howl, 
And Mary’s heart would quake, 

Priest slunk neath Mary’s petticoats, 

And there he’d whine for cake. 

And sometimes—so it hath been said, 
When lion roared outright, 

Priest to be thought a jackal , gave 
Poor Mary s heels a bite! 


1 



RECOLLECTIONS. 


T3G7hen I was the age of nine or ten, 

I used'to take delight 
In roaming over the wood and Hen, 

o o 1 

From dewy morn till night. 

Full well I recollect the day 

When I wandered all alone 
Where the gloomy shades of the forest lay, 

And the light, dry leaves are thrown. 

Where the dreary rocks for many an age, 

Have kept their shadowy place, 

Where the winds may blow and the tempests rage, 
Without making one pale face. 

O, I loved then, and I’d love it now; 

And if I was free to-day, 

I'd set my foot on the mountain’s brow 
Ere an hour had passed away. 


io 8 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


I’d plunge myself in the forest wild, 

Where my thoughts could play at ease, 

And feel again as I felt when a child, 

In the midst of such scenes as these. 

But I am a man, and now must bear 
The burden of life all day, 

Nor even at night be free from care; 

For my childhoods passed away. 

And the bounding pulse of my young years 
Have grown to a steady beat; 

No longer my blushing cheek appears 
To gather the spirit’s heat. 

But oft with the eye of the mind I gaze 
On the images of the past; 

Then I feel the gladness of other days 
In my vacant bosom cast. 




THE SACRED TREE. 


f^N one of my good pasture fields doth stand 
A grove of trees; 

There often I delight to take my ease, 

And view the land. 

Once on a time I took a pleasant stroll, 

In pensive mood; 

And while within the pleasant shade I stood, 
Rapt was my soul. 

And as I looked upon the waving boughs, 
And sniffed the gale, 

I brought to mind full many a fairy tale 
Of lovers vows; 

And of that wood enchanted, where each tree 
Some spirit had, 

A ghostly resident or good or bad, 

In gloom or glee. 

iog 


110 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


There stood the locust, walnut, sturdy oak, 
And poplar tree, 

Then more than ever of sweet liberty 
To me it spoke. 

L looking round me where my cattle grazed, 
Saw every where 

The green grass eaten off so close and bare; 
But was amazed, 

To see untouched beneath my chestnut tree 
The grass grow green. 

I said unto myself, what can this mean! 

What mystery ! 

No fence around to guard the sacred spot, 

Yet cow and horse 

Will graze around in ever changing course, 

But touch it not. 

Surely the beasts behold some angel bright, 
The boughs between, 

With flaming sword to guard the tree, unseen 
By human sight. 

Sure Balaams ass the threat’ning angel saw, 
While standing there; 

Nothing was visible to Balaams stare. 

I gazed with awe. 


THE SACRED TREE . 


ii r 


I said, beneath this tree I’ll take a rest, 


For who can tell, 

But that on me may fall the wondrous spell 
By it possessed. 

I dropped me down—but like a schoolboys ball 
I bounced again; 

The chestnut burs plucked from my seat with pain , 
Explained it all! 









LINES ON 


THE DEATH OF ROBERT COLLETT. 


Note.—Mr. Collett was a young school teacher of high virtue and great mental gifts. 
He was noted for his attainments in Algebra (symboled page) and the natural sciences. An 
intimate friend and member of the same Presbyterian church with the author. He died of 
consumption in his twenty-third year, superinduced no doubt by his excessive devotion to study. 




?) ,he smile of spring has come once more 
To gladden many a heart; 

Yet some of us must sorrow sore 
To see the loved depart. 


The friends of virtue here below 
Are few enough at best, 

How short their stay; how soon they go 
To mingle with the blest. 


Our friend with whom we re called to part, 
Displayed while with us here, 

Those qualities of mind and heart 
That made him doubly dear. 


i / 



MOSS'S POEMS. 


ii4 


Not given to him the crown of age, 

The boon of lengthened days, 

Yet knowledge spread her symboled page 
Before his eager gaze. 

As up the hill of science he 
His weary progress made, 

He stumbled near the laurel tree, 

And sleeps beneath its shade. 







ON LY THIS ONCE. 


THE PRAYER OF SAMPSON BETWEEN THE PILLARS. 

Judges 16 . 28. 


H i s once, my God, once more 
Come with thy might and power, 

Only this once my vanished strength restore, 
And bless my dying hour. 


I had surrendered all 

Unto my bitter foes, 

And had no longer any strength to call 
On Thee amid my woes. 

For when I did essay 

Upon thy name to call, 

My sins before my eyes did so dismay, 
I could not speak at all. 

' 15 


MOSS'S POEMS 


ii 6 


But now, my God, just now, 

Thy goodness in times past, 

Comes rushing to my mind, I know not how, 
As comes the viewless blast. 

And then I so desire 

The prospering of Thy cause, 

And feel within me such a raoqna- i re , 

To see Thy trampled laws. 

Only this once supply 

My dissipated powers, 

To fight the foe again although I die 
Amid their falling towers. 

o 



A PRAYER. 



ather of mercies! unto Thee, 

Once more I dare to bend the knee, 
And wilt Thou deHn to hear 

o 


The humble prayer of one who knows 
Twas sin that caused the many woes 
He has been doomed to bear. 


Lord, I have sinned, and in Thy sight, 
Am guilty, but w r ilt Thou the night 
That wraps my soul dispel; 
No longer suffer me to go 
The way that leads us on to woe, 

But help me to do well. 


117 


ii8 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


Pardon my numerous sins, and make 
My heart to all that’s good awake, 
Thy holy will to learn; 
Whate’er I say, or think, or do, 

O, may I be enabled to 

Some good account to turn. 


O! may I look to Thee for all 
Of good that to my lot may fall, 

And in Thee put my trust; 
And help me from my heart to know 
Thou managest affairs below, 

Nor wilt forsake the just. 






I wish I was a boy again 















YOUTH AND AGE. 


“ wish I was a boy again, 

To sport upon the green.” 
Go, then, unhindered and renew 
The frolics of fourteen. 


What! still contented do you sit 
In that old rocking chair, 

Wishing to play upon the green, 

And yet not romping there ? 

No, friend, deceive not thus yourself, 
Your joys are none the less; 

Age has its sweets as well as youth, 
Though different, I confess. 

What means that twinkle in your eye, 
That smile upon your face, 

As looking out you see the boys 
Each other wildly chase? 


u 9 


120 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


’Twas joyful in your younger years 
Youths antics to go through; 

With greater pleasure now you see 
Your grandson skip for you. 

If virtue crowns the life God gives 
We need not live it twice; 

A melancholy outlook has ♦ 

The hoary head of vice. 

“ I wish I was a girl again, 

In freedom from all care, 

To gather blossoms in the fields 
And braid them in my hair. ” 

No, mother, all the hours of youth, 

No equal pleasure yields, 

As when your noble boy comes in 
To dinner from the fields. 

But flowers, the brightest hued of them 
In beauty bloom in view, 

And yet no effort do I see 

To pluck them made by you. 

Sure, then, a change of heart has come 
To correspond with years, 

And virtue’s blossoms bloom in age, 
Though watered by our tears. 


wish I was a girl again To gather blossoms in the fields. 

In freedom from all care. And braid them in my hair.” 




















































































































































































































































































































































































“NOT TO YOU !” 


n c e when I was at my labor, toiling 
At a task I deemed too hard for me, 
Musing o’er the hardships we must suffer, 
Almost of my God, complainingly; 

Of delights that might have been a dreaming, 
And sometimes of joys that yet might be, 
Ev’n for me. 


Over all my sorrows for a moment 
I began to rise triumphantly, 

At my labor putting forth an effort 

Somewhat greater, uncomplainingly, 
And a state of cheerfulness assuming, 

I began to think there yet might be 
Pleasure for me. 


121 


122 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


But while thus enjoying a short freedom 

From life’s wonted miseries, which flew 
From me for a moment, fondly hoping 

They would never come again in view; 
Suddenly a voice seemed to address me, 

Speaking from above in words most true, 
“Not to you." 


Quick as lightning my heart comprehended 

All the meaning of those words though few, 
And another heavy sigh of sadness 

I breathed out upon the winds that blew, 
And my heart could lightly beat no longer; 

For those words prophetic pierced me through— 
“ Mot to you. ” 


Truly these were words of inspiration, 

Proven by events to be most true, 

For the next day brought its flood of sorrow, 
Which instead of passing, deeper grew, 
And some spirit still keeps on repeating 
That sad prophecy my ear unto, 

“ Not to you." 


NOT TO YOU. 


123 


Not to you in life has been appointed 
Things desirable; but misery 
All thy weary life shall ever darken, 

Destined never dreamed of joys to see ,* 
All thy life a day of clouds unbroken :— 
Thus it has been ever unto me.— 

“Not to thee." 









MORNING CAROL. 


j )t is morning 


! It 


is morning! 


And the blithe lark his nest scornine, 

o y 

Carols to the light of day; 

And the sun is all adorning 

With his beams that brightly play 
On each mountain, and each fountain 
Murmuring a symphonious lay. 


Where are all the petty sorrows, 

And each thing that feeling harrows, 

Of the vanished yesterday; 

Gone; but yet the present borrows 

Something from what’s passed away 
Still we’re sliding; slowly gliding 
Onward without power to stay. 

12 5 









126 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


In the breezes gently blowing, 

And the branches upward throwing, 
There is something truly sweet; 
And the spirits, gladly flowing, 

Seem not indisposed to meet, 
Without pining ills combining, 

That would this day’s hopes defeat. 


All creation lives in gladness, 

And there is no seeming sadness 
The earth’s loveliness to mar. 

O ! there is a thrilling madness 
In the soul that soars afar 
In morn’s lightness, with the brightness— 

o 7 o 

Innate brightness of a star. 


How the joyful soul, delighted, 

Deems it never was benighted, 

Or o’ershadowed here below; 
Happy that ’tis so short sighted. 

O ! that it would still be so 
To what grieves us, for what leaves us 
More reluctantly than woe. 


SONG OF THE SWISS EMIGRANT. 


! I’m a Switzer far away, 

Far from my native mountain, 
But still in free America 

I call to mind its fountain. 


No more from my own Alpine home 
I’ll view the distant glacier, 

No more I joyously shall roam 

Along those heights with pleasure. 

’Tis true I love this land so fair, 

Yet sadness fills my bosom, 

When think I of the mountains bare, 
Where trembled not a blossom. 


For still my heart turns sadly back, 
And sadly I remember 
The solitary mountain track 

That wooed me in November. 


127 


128 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


And many a kinsman far behind, 

Beyond the rolling waters, 

Is in my spirit still enshrined, 

With all their bright eyed daughters. 

. And when I think that never more, 

I’ll meet them on the mountains, 

And drink with them as oft before, 

From Switzer’s cooling fountains, 

I feel myself the loneliest one, 

On earth foredoomed to wander, 

Or gaze upon the setting sun, 

As sadly I do ponder. 

So then a long farewell to thee, 

Land of my predecessors, 

For who again shall look on me 
As one of thy possessors. 






WINTER. 



























r^HE wintry winds blow keen and cold, 

And on them rides the falling, drifting snow; 
And Life looks up and sees her foe, 

And feels her out bound rivers all controlled, 

And inward turns their flow. 

2 

But rushing out to meet the flow 

Of life’s warm stream retreating from the cold ; 
The spirits which our hearts enfold, 

From our pained bodies burst, and flashing go, 

And thought is free and bold. 

I2Q 














MOSS'S POEMS. 


r 3 ° 

3 

Winter the time appears to be 

When God forsakes the poor to feast the rich, 
But there are sometimes pleasures which 
Glow on the poor mans hearth even then, should he 
Have love’s delights in reach. 

4 

The Frost King from the gloomy north, 

With Want and Pain as ministers of state, 

And snow flake banners all irate. 

With glittering icicle for rod, comes forth, 

Chastising small and great. 

5 

Glad children gathering autumn flowers, 

Romping at will beyond parental rule, 

See him approach ; their blood grows cool, 

And from his face they flee, and spend the hours, 
Safe sheltered in the school. 

6 

He thunders at the poor man’s door 

With voice most harsh and pitiless, and tells 
Of anxious pain, and funeral knells, 

Of horrors never known or felt before ; 

And Grief’s big river swells; 

7 

But to the rich man’s door he comes 

With merry sleigh bells swinging on his arm ; 
His coming fills not with alarm ; 

He looks in through the glass at happy homes, 

But enters not to harm. 
















































































































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"Put to the rich man’s door he comes 

With merry sleigh bells swinging on his arm " 


















































WINTER. 


* 3 * 

8 

The chilling snow flakes here that fall, 

May be the seeds which angels from above, 
Are scattering with the hand of love, 

Whose spirit fruit shall gathered be by all, 

In worlds to which we move. 

9 

The insect feels the monarch’s touch, 

And paralyzed, with the first pang expires, 

Or aping coffined death, retires 
As chrysalis, and so escapes his clutch, 

And waits for summer’s fires. 

10 

The stagnant waters, breathing death, 

Are purified by touch of Winter’s wand, 

And harmless in his presence stand, 

As soul of sinful mortal by the breath 
Of Holy Spirit fanned. 

11 

From thoughtless folly sinful man 

Is forced to turn unwillingly away, 

And his stern teacher to obey; 

And Forethought, wakened up, begins to plan 
For coming evil day. 

12 

When first we see the monarch’s lace, 

We nothing can behold but anger there; 

But longer gazing, our despair 
Is soothed to see the compensating grace 
Which his rough hand doth bear. 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


*32 

13 

In arctic regions dark and chill, 

Mankind has even found a dear abode, 

And patient treads the frozen road, 

Rather than face the numerous forms of ill, 

By which the South’s o’erflowed 

14 

For in the frozen north alone, 

Can human virtue find a safe retreat 
From persecuting vice, and meet 
With foes less fierce than those which she must own, 
That bask in southern heat. 


THE ALBUM TREE. 


WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 


A 


crystal fountain once I knew, 

Which burst forth in a lonely place, 
By which a mighty beech tree grew, 
That solitary spot to grace. 


That fountain was the sweet resort 
Of many a wayworn traveller, 
And many a laborer came to court 
Repose from toil, a moment here. 


Resting beneath that beechen shade, 

You might in solitude behold 
Where rustic hands had taught the blade 
To tell who there had drank of old. 


133 


^ 34 - 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


The sculptured bark of that old tree 
Could stir a fountain in the heart, 
More pure than that which one might see 
Beneath its cooling branches start. 


Upon these pages, thus, my friend, 

Thine eye may see what other hands, 
Have in some happy moment penned, 
Now dead or far in distant lands. 




TOBACCO. 



here was a John and Joshua, 

Two warm and faithful friends were they; 
They lived in old Virginia state, 

Where once lived Washington the great. 


They were a faithful jolly two 
As ever did tobacco chew, 

Or swung an axe, or lifted hoe, 

Or scorned the power of sun and snow. 


They both were walking out one day, 
And met each other on the way; 

As usual they must have a chat, 

As down upon the grass they sat. 

When quickly John the silence broke, 
Arid thus unto his comrade spoke : 
“What shall We talk about to-day,” 
“Tobacco,” answered Joshua. 


*35 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


“As you know something of the trade, 

And of it many a keg have made, 

I’d have you tell me what they do 
Before it is prepared to chew.” 

“I will,” says John, “with all my heart; 

But with me you must take a part, 

This year the savory plant to till.” 

Says Joshua, “I think I will.” 

Thus John to Joshua began, 

As free of heart as e’er was man. 

This spring when round the fields we go, 
To mend the fences that are low, 

We’ll not neglect to bear in mind, 

That when we do a brush heap find, 

We’ll mark it as the place where first 
Our infant project shall be nursed. 

To this at proper time we’ll speed, 

With fire brands and tobacco seed. 

We’ll burn the brush, clean of the ground, 
Leave naught but ashes to be found. 

And here we’ll sow our tiny seed, 

Which many a full grown plant shall breed. 
When this we’ve done we’ll go away, 

Leave our tobacco, Joshua. 


TO BA CCO. 


*37 


But after a few weeks have flown 
And our tobacco plants have grown, 

We’ll wait until a rainy day, 

Then plant tobacco, Joshua. 

We’ll have our ground broke up before* 
And it completely harrowed o’er; 

Which is the never failing way 
To raise tobacco, Joshua. 

We’ll set our plants into the ground, 

And nicely press the dirt around; 

And keep the rooting pigs away, 

From our tobacco, Joshua. 

We’ll hoe our plants, we’ll keep them clean. 
Nor let a single weed be seen, 

And watch the progress day by day 
Of our tobacco, Joshua. 

And when they large and larger grow, 
Begin unwelcome shoots to show; 

Then we will at the close of day 
Break off the suckers, Joshua. 

Still they’re not free from evil’s power, 

Will greedy worms our crop devour, 

If we should but a single day 
Refuse to tend it, Joshua. 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


By this time will the leaves have grown 
To their full size, nor yet alone 
Must it be left. Each fitting day 
We’ll pull the leaves off, Joshua. 

To wilt awhile we’ll let them lie, 

Then string, and hang them up to dry. 
When they are dried, each rainy day 
We’ll hand tobacco, Joshua. 

This done we’ll twist and keg it up, 

And pour ambeer* all oe’r the top, 
Preparing it we’ll spend the day, 

And then we’ll press it, Joshua. 

When this is done, and when done well, 
It will be quite prepared to sell. 

Now with cigars let’s end the day.— 

I’ve told you all, friend Joshua. 



* Ambeer.”—The syrup of boiled tobacco stems. 



THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. 


tan ding before my glass I see 
A sight appalling unto me, 

Truth painful to declare; 

And what think you, can be that sight, 
That fills my heart with fear and blight; 
My first gray hair! 


It brings a message, but I fear 
That faithful messenger to hear; 

And if I should but dare 
To pluck it off with angry might, 
It comes and puts before my sight 
Companion there! 


*39 


14.0 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


If visitor of transient stay, 

The guest unwelcome of a day, 
Its presence I might bear: 
But no i no coming day is near, 
When parting footfall I shall hear 
Of that gray hair! 


My glass aforetime oft hath told 
A flattering tale of locks of gold, 
And now how can I bear 
The solemn message which it breaks 
Unto my bosom when it speaks 
By that gray hair! 


I feel within a fund of force, 

Not quite the same as once, of course, 
But much remaining there, 

And scarcely would suspect decline, 

But from that never failing sign— 

o o 

My first gray hair I 


THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. 


Hi 


It tells me youth has past away, . 
And whispers darkly of decay, 

It may be, of despair. 

No flattery, no deceit can be 
Wrung from that messenger to me, 
My first gray hair! 


It whispers darkly of the past, 

It tells me youth don’t always last 
And bids me to prepare 
For home beyond the things I see 
And promises to stay with me 
Till I am there! 


To him who walks in evil ways 
The first gray hair is but the blaze, 
The blaze of hell laid bare; 

To him whose home is in tne skies 
It is a cord of slender size 
To lead him there! 


* 4 * 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


For if the messenger we heed, 
Nor suffer him in vain to plead, 
In voice that says prepare; 
Though sorrowful the token be, 
With resignation we can- see 
The first gray hair. 







There is an undiscovered country, lying 
In Central Africa, beyond her sand.” 
















WBm 


THE WONDER LAND 














































THE WONDER LAND. 


Ihere is an undiscovered country, lying 
In Central Africa, beyond her sand, 
Which spreads around it like a belt, defying 
The hardy traveler’s enterprising band. 


And here there is a vast blue lake which dashes 
Its restless waters neath the sun’s bright eye. 
Day after day, year after year, it washes 

The smooth, round stones that on its borders lie. 


For fifty miles around the land’s so fertile, 

That all things vegetable spring to life 
Without the cultivator’s hand; and myrtle, 

Palm, willow, olive, cypress, here are rife. 

And there is everlasting summer reigning, 

With roses blushing, ripening fruits all year; 
For nature here is ever found retaining 

The beauty of her countenance, bright and clear 


143 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


*44 

There is a tall and gloomy mountain rearing 

Its frowning heights upon the blue lake’s shore, 

Where the wild animals have oft stood peering 
Down on the waters, listening to their roar. 

The hemlock and the pine may be found clinging 
To the dark rocks that form its shaggy brow; 

Where nestles the night storm when Jove is flinging 
His blasting thunderbolts on all below. 

There is a maddening wildness in this mountain, 
Which even the very rocks and air pervades; 

Unearthly is the music of each fountain, 

Which dashes down beneath the hemlock shades. 

Long years ago a youth did make his dwelling 
On this high mountain, where he dwelt alone, 

Where he could listen to the wild winds telling 
Their tales of travel in a wearied tone. 

He had been from his native country driven 
By a most cruel monarch, and for years 

He trod the trackless wild, imploring heaven 

To guide him where no burning desert sears. 

While wandering o’er the desert, sad and dreary, 
The morsel needed to sustain his life, 

With difficulty he procured, with weary 

And aching limbs, that fled from desperate strife. 


THE WONDER LAND. 


H5 

The sun by day, the stars at midnight guided 

His way, and he still kept the selfsame course 
As he imagined, to a land divided 

By no rude factions of contending force. 

But he mistook his way, at length arriving 

Upon the precincts of this wondrous land, 

Where he rejoiced to find himself surviving 

The dangers and the sufferings few withstand. 

He started with some few friends, but they perished. 

And he alone was destined to behold 
This land of strange enchantments, where was nourished 
From nature’s breast, luxuriance all untold. 

Some years he had in this new world resided, 

And made his home in a high mountain cave, 
Where he was furnished well with food, provided 
With venison by the wilds, fish from the wave. 

But once it chanced while he was out pursuing 
The game of the surrounding forest, when 
He did perceive there was a tempest brewing, 

Which spread its gloomy pinions o’er the glen. 

He was too far away to make a cover 

Of his own cavern roof, where he might keep 
In safety till the raging storm was over 

And had ceased battling with the dark gray steep. 


i 4 6 MOSS'S POEMS. 

His eye soon fell upon a rock projecting, 

Of which he instantly resolved to make 

A shelter; he beneath it crouched, expecting 

To hear the first peal of loud thunder break. 

And looking round he saw the entrance gaping, 

Of a dark cave he had not seen before, 

He felt rejoiced that he in thus escaping 

The tempest, might a cavern new explore. 

He gathered up some fagots lying near him, 

And lit them that he might go in and see, 

What nature there had furnished to endear him 
To the surrounding mountain scenery. 

Not far he ventured till he paused to listen, 

Expecting some strange sound to greet his ear, 

When all at once two horrid eyeballs glisten 

Full in his face and chill his blood with fear. 

< 

His brain reeled with a kind of wild confusion; 

He turned to seek the entrance of the cave; 

Much he regretted now his rash intrusion, 

Determining though in action to be brave. 

Blinded he was by his own torch, and striving 
To find an outlet from this horrid place; 

But a most strange fatality was driving 

Him still the more astray at every pace. 


THE WONDER LAND. 


*47 

Where’er he turned his own it seemed wer'e glaring 
Those frightful eyes of demon or of beast, 

He had not power to keep himself from staring 

At that from which his gaze was ne’er released. 

He heeded not the tempest that was raging 
Around and over him at such a time; 

He recked not that the elements were waging 
Upon the mountain heights a war sublime. 

At length howe’er his torch expired, and left him, 

In a terrific dungeon, which contained 

No light but that which seen almost bereft him 
Of reason, lost in terror unrestrained. 

Beneath his tread the gloom around him rumbled, 

But still some courage in his'bosom swelled 

When suddenly o’er something bright he stumbled, 
With glare as fiery as aught he beheld. 

He saw that it was lifeless and he seized it, 

And found that what alarmed him was a gem 

Of countless cost, but not for this he prized it, 

But the relief of mind in knowing them. 

And turning round he saw a light before him, 

Which he resolved thenceforth should guide his way 

He thought the beam, if followed, might restore him 
Once more to liberty and light of day. 


148 MOSS'S POEMS. 

And so it did; for ere he long pursued it, 

He found himself conducted safely where 
He had found entrance, and he now scarce rued it, 
And felt somewhat inclined to linger there. 


On visiting again this cell of magic, 

He found it filled with wonders which no tongue 
Could e’er express in language gay or tragic, 

And treasures for which men scarce dare to long. 


And much besides most wonderful he found there; 
Pieces of loadstone so amazing strong, 

They could have pulled a train of cars around there,, 
But cars did not to such a place belong. 

Pieces of g-old as laree as a tea kettle, 

Were bountifully scattered all around, 

And quantities of other precious metal, 

As plentiful as limestones here, were found. 

But for such things as these he cared but little, 
There being none with whom to barter there; 

And almost disregarded as his spittle, 

Was even the gold for which he had small care. 

He found some specimens of shells most curious, 
Left there while yet the earth was newly made, 

Remnants of beasts and reptiles, tame or furious, 
That to this sepulchre to die had strayed. 


THE WONDER LAND. 


H9 

But ’twas not in this cave that he discovered 
What was most wonderful to mortal sight; 

For some productive genius ever hovered 

O’er all this fruitful region, day and night. 

For while one morning he was slowly walking 
Along the green shore of the shining lake, 

And to himself in meditation talking, 

He saw a curious shrub before him shake. 

Approaching it, he found the branches bending 

With ripe red fruit, like apples that appeared ; 

He put his hand forth and plucked one, intending 
To test their qualities, for which he feared. 

He found their taste delicious, and proceeded 
To strip the tree of all it did possess, 

But after some time saw he ne’er succeeded 
In making what was on the tree look less. 

Then first he noticed that when he did pluck one. 
Before another moment had passed by, 

On the same place some unseen hand had stuck one, 
The place of what was taken to supply. 

But this was nearly his last observation; 

On his return he laid him down to sleep 

An hour or so, in a commanding station, 

A mark for some stray, hungry tiger’s leap. 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


150 

In truth it was not long till he was fated. 

To be the contents of a tiger’s maw, 

Which passing by with appetite unsated, 

His all defenseless sleeping victim saw. 

The savage monster’s life was also ended 
By this attempt our hero to to devour ; 

To atoms though his body had been rended, 

The beast strove with his head for half an hour. 

He strove to take it without mastication, 

But vain his efforts to perform the feat; 

For it was to his infinite vexation, 

A most unmanageable piece of meat. 

He choked upon it, and he struggled madly, 

To get it from his throat, but all in vain, 

He found that it was fast becoming sadly 
More difficult to get all right again. 

At length he found the ghost had to be yielded, 

If ghost he had, himself was sure not one; 

His limbs grew tremulous, nor longer wielded 

His ponderous frame as they before had done. 

You would have thought the neighboring buzzards scented 
Even the approach of death, so soon they came, 

And greedily their hungry rage they vented, 

Upon the beast’s fast disappearing frame. 


THE WONDER LAND. 


There was not left of him a single muscle, 

Nor of the man he slew, at set of sun, 

Nor o’er the mountains was there further bustle 
Of man for deer that did before him run. 

There now was left no man to look with wonder 
Upon the blooming, fruitful fields around, 

Or listen to the rolling mountain thunder 

That held the listening ear in awe profound. 

The animals that o’er this region sported, 

And birds that perched and sung on every bough, 
Were all that to the hills and shores resorted 
And all of life that was remaining now. 


Much more of this strange country might be spoken, 
But for the present let this much suffice. 

Since then those forests have not known a token 
Of man; still verdant ’neath their sunny skies. 
















































































































































































“There now 
Upon the 


was left no man to look with wonder 
blooming, fruitful fields around.” 





















































































































































































KATY THE IDIOT. 


Lines suggested on seeing a very aged idiot and hearing 
an account of her history. 


@ 


ft proud are we to whom has been 
By gracious heaven assigned 
A body not deformed, and all 
Man’s faculties of mind. 


How much are we inclined to look 
With contempt in our eyes 
Upon the form ill shapen, and 
The idiot all unwise. 

But beings of superior kind, 

Angelic, it may be, 

Will see small difference in the blind, 
And those who blindly see. 


*53 





154- 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


And those who are but idiots now, 

In some more favored sphere, 

May shine all glorious with the powers 
That men most covet here. 

And those who move in highest spheres 
Of thought and feeling, know 
And feel for the less favored more 
Than do the coarse and low. 

There’s poor old idiot Katy, who 
Has filled her woman’s sphere 
Better than many a saucy jade 

That might be mentioned here. 

An idiot’s life was hers to live, 

Despised and pushed about 
From place to place, but in her heart 
Love found a place, no doubt. 

Though prettier maidens have inspired 
The amorous poet’s song, 

To Katy in her younger years 
Some charms did sure belong. 

By sweet consent or brutal force 
A mother she became, 

But hov/, or where, or when, or who, 
She had no wit to name. 


KATY THE IDIOT. 


155 


Old Katy at the washing tub 
In tattered garments clad, 
Would often stop and sighing say 
“O, my! but I feel sad.” 

Still at her task she toiled away, 

As freely as if glad, 

But often stopped to sigh and say 
“ O ! what makes me so sad.” 

“O! Katy in that one word, “sad,” 
So often breathed by thee, 

Thy kinship to our sighing race, 
Thou hast declared to me. 

However distant in thy birth 
From my paternal line, 
However different may be 

Thy mental gifts from mine. 

That melancholy sense of ill, 

Which words cannot express, 
Nor high philosophy explain 
Humanity confess. 

The thrill of joy hast thou not felt, 
A lover’s hopes and fears, 

A moment’s sunshine on the path 
Of thy beclouded years. 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


156 

If Katy’s soul could but shine through 
Her body’s dark eclipse, 

Might reason not light up her brow, 
And love burn on her lips. 

But so it is; how sad is life, 

To fool as well as wise; 

All play life’s tragedy alike, 

In pantomime of sighs. 



THE BATTLE ON THE BRIDGE. 


0ld Stephen Hoffman's hair was grown 
Almost as white as snow; 

Not many years to him could be 
Allotted here below. 


But still he had no little strength 
To him remaining yet, 

And calm behind a rosy cloud 
His sun was like to set. 


His life had been a peaceful one, 
As people all supposed, 

And in an even way had run 
Till it was nearly closed: 

His store he had attended to 
In such a faithful way, 

That he had wealth enough to do 
The remnant of his day. 


J 5 & 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


He had been known for many years 
As faithful Christian man; 

In fact, he was but young when he 
His Christian race began. 

His only son was now of age, 

A man of twenty-one, 

And business partners now they were, 
The father and the son. 

And after business hours one day, 

They took a walk abroad, 

At leisure to converse about 

The wondrous ways of God. 

Their steps were so directed that 
The river bridge they crossed, 

But on the bridge the father seemed 
In meditation lost. 

The father moved with step delayed, 

And seemed in solemn thought, 

And once he sighed and said aloud, 

“ The battle here I fought .” 

The sons attentive ear o’erheard 
As thus they walked along, 

He said, “Such words before I’ve heard . 
Fall, father, from your tongue.” 


THE BA TTLE ON THE BRIDGE . 


“And I have often thought to ask, 
What meaning they possessed, 

But did not, for I thought you wished, 
To keep it in your breast.” 

“Oh! yes, my son, long time ago, 
There was a struggle here; 

Yes, twice your father on this bridge, 
To death was drawn quite near.” 

The son, surprised, replied, “ I’ve read 
My histories through and through, 

And of the Indian wars, but here 
Of battles never knew. 

‘And what is more, I never knew 
That you a soldier was; 

But always thought you lived in peace, 
Abiding by the laws.” 

“’Tis true, my son,” the father said, 

I never buckled on 

The sword whereby most chieftains get 
Great praise for victories won. 

Yet I have battled in my life 
Against as fierce a foe 

As e’er man met, and, thanks to God, 

I came off conqueror, too. 


i6o 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


“Then, father, tell me of the strife 
That once came off with you; 

I’ll listen with attentive ear, 

And hear your story through.” 

“ My son, when I was young, and life 
Was bright before my eyes, 

Unbridged this river dashed its waves 
Beneath the changing skies.” 

At length our townsmen having means 
And also enterprise, 

Resolved that o’er the floods beneath 
This structure should arise. 

The workmen with untiring skill 
Upon the structure wrought, 

Until we gladly saw it nigh 
Unto completion brought. 

It chanced that on some business 
Across the river went, 

And counted not upon return 
Until a week was spent. 

As I crossed in the ferry boat 
The jovial workmen said, 

“When you come back, your horse can try 
The bridge’s plank, instead.” 


THE BA TTLE ON THE BRIDGE. 161 


So, when I reached the neighborhood, 

Upon my homeward trip, 

I heard the bridge was finished, from 
Each story telling lip. 

It needed nothing but the floor, 

And that was then begun, 

When last I saw it, and of course, 

I thought the bridge was done. 

I reached the river late at night; 

The night was dark as pitch, 

And when I struck the bridge I thought, 

o o 7 

Our noble town how rich! 

My horse went on a rod or so, 

Then halted and stood still; 

But anxious to get home, I laid 
The whip on with a will. 

The horse moved on; the bridge seemed so 
Interminably long, 

It seemed I was almost an age 
Amid those timbers strong. 

I heard the roaring waters dash 
A hundred feet below, 

And proudly mused upon the skill 
That mortal man can show. 


162 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


At length I reached my home that night 
And found the folks in bed, 

Whereto I went and slumbered till 
The gloom of night was fled. 

Next morn I boasted how I’d crossed 
The new bridge on my way; 

They said I had not, for no floor 
Upon the sleepers lay. 

I still persisted that I had, 

And still they all replied 

That I had not, and some more bold 
Just hinted that I lied 

At length it was decided that 
We’d all together go 

Down to the bridge, and thus the truth 
About the thing we’d know. 


We went; there stood indeed the bridge, 
The timbers stout and strong ; 

So high, it seemed most in the clouds, 

To this excited throng. 

o 

I scarcely could believe my eyes, 

My breath was nigh withdrawn; 

The sleepers stretched from shore to shore, 
But not a plank thereon. 


THE BATTLE ON THE BRIDGE. 

At such a dizzy height few men, 

With careful foot would tread 
Upon that stretch of timber, which 
Appeared like spider’s thread. 

I had almost begun to think 
Myself ’twas but a dream, 

That I had had the night before, 

So strange did matters seem. 

But when my horse’s tracks were found 
Indented all along, 

I doubted not, but felt my risk 
Those timbers when among. 

When fully I became impressed 
With all my danger passed, 

I fainted quite away, but came 
Unto myself at last. 

If but my horse had only made 
One step amiss that night, 

Dashed to eternity, my soul 

Had tak’n its fearful flight. 

The God of mercy saved me then, 

And oft it comes to mind, 

How I have been through dangers led, 
Myself to danger blind. 


[6 3 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


Some unforseen event had with 
The workmen interfered, 

And vexed them by a week’s delay, 

Just as the end was neared. 

Well, time passed on, and by degrees 
The impression on my mind 
Passed off, and I to think of it 
Grew somewhat disinclined. 

Our town increased in wealth and size, 
And by the growth in trade, 
Another town sprung up, across 

The bridge which had been made. 

’Twas here that in the course of time 
A whiskey shop was set, 

Where men from either side could meet, 
And liquors they could get. 

Just then the temperance movement had 
But little progress made, 

And he that took a social glass 
His credit ne’er betrayed. 

Our thriving town had but few men 
That did not take a glass, 

And I, to bear them company, 

This Dridge did sometimes pass. 


THE BA TTLE ON THE BRIDGE. 165 


The appetite and habit grew, 

Till I could feel their strength, 

And just a little fear they might 
My master prove at length, 

I thought of breaking off some day, 

But did not do it then. 

And seriously I pondered o’er 

The important question, when f 

There came a time when solemn thought 
Possessed me all the day; 

At night I thought I’d cross the bridge, 
And drive my gloom away. 

But when the bridge arose in view, 

The thought came in my mind, 

How nearly I some years before, 

A watery grave did find. 

What I had long considered my 
Miraculous escape, 

Now more than ever to my mind 
Assumed a serious shape. 

And when my steps first struck the planks, 
Though all with them was right, 

I felt myself in danger, more 

Than when I crossed that night. 


i66 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


I fought the feeling for a time 
With firm unyielding pride, 

And said, Oh! Pshaw! and tried to go 
Across to t’other side. 

But something seemed to pull me back, 
No human hand I know 
But something nigh with equal force, 
Impelled me on to go. 

I thought to go that one more time, 

And then to quit I’d vow, 

But something seemed to say that thing 
Must be decided now. 

So summoning all my strength of will, 

I turned about that niofht 
Towards home, and said, “It cant be hard 
To do the thing that's right'd 

But ere I had got half way home, 

My appetite came back 
With such an overwhelming power 
That I reversed my track. 

But when I struck the bridge again, 

The struggle in my soul 
Renewed itself with tenfold power, 

And held me in control. 


THE BATTLE ON THE BRIDGE. 

Contending armies in the field 

Have lost and won the gronnd, 

But never yet so fierce a fight 
Took place in wars renowmed. 

Between resolving not to go, 

And yielding up to go, 

I felt my strength evanishing 

And steps grow weak and slow. 

But nothing seemed to hold me back, 
Like recollection bright 

That filled my mind, of my escape, 
When on the bridge that night. 

I felt it was a question then 
Of life or death to me; 

And felt how weak the strength of man, 
To save himself, must be. 

I left the bridge and started home 
Some several times that niodit, 

o 7 

Vanquished and victor was by turns, 
Warring with appetite. 

But thinking, as beneath my feet 
I heard the waters roar, 

The hand that helped me then to cross, 
Might give me help once more. 


i6y 


i68 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


Unhelped I did not reach my home 
Alive, and not a corse 

So thinking, did these words seem spoke 
To me: —“ / led you r horse . 

Then clearly flashed before my mind, 

My base ingratitude. 

I cried for strength; ’twas given me then, 
The contest to conclude. 

The words, “ / led your horsed appeared 
As plain as day to me, 

But something else seemed said, the sense 
Of which I could not see. 

Not that the words of which I speak, 

Were spoken to my ear, 

But on my mind they were impressed 
More than the words I hear. 

These were the words, but what they meant 
I still am at a loss: 

“I'll meet you just once more right here , 

To help you safe across." 

The father ceased;—his tale was told, 

And nothing further said, 

But dropped right down;—the son screamed out, 
“Oh l God! my fathers dead l 


THE BA TTLE ON THE BRIDGE. 169 


’Twas so; and doubtless now to him 
Who on the bridge did fall, 

The words he could not understand, 
Were plainest of them alL 







BABYLON. 


traveller, wandering o’er the earth, 
Came to a dreary waste, 
Whereon, as sadly he looked forth, 
The ruins dark he traced 
Where once a mighty city stood— 

In haughty splendor shone; 

And gazing o’er the solitude, 

’Twas thus he mused alone: 


“ Is this the place where Babylon 
Once stood in grandeur bold? 

If so, where are the glories crone, 

o o 7 

Hers in the days of old? 

Is that the stone, moss covered there, 
To which even men did bow 
If that is the same marble, where 

Are those that worshipped, now? 


n 1 


172 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


Strange shadows seem to stretch along 
The ruins as they lie, 

Like fragments of the days of song 
And mirth, in years gone by; 
When Babylon’s unbroken wall 
Hemmed in her multitude 
And she, the world’s proud capital, 
Magnificently stood. 


The fox peeps from the ruined tower, 

And hears the serpent hiss, 

Where man once dreamed not of the hour 
When all would come to this. 

The dying thistle waves its beard 
Unto the wandering gale; 

Black ruin broods o’er all endeared 
Once in this dreary vale. 


Was this black stone beneath my feet 
A portion of the wall, 

That was protection for the seat 
Of pride, before its fall. 

And can there now be seen no trace 
Of all that glory left; 

Thus time hath made this once proud place 
Of grandeur all bereft. 


BABYLON. 


1 73 


See that huge serpent there, that crawls 
Devoid of fear, among 
The ruins of those mouldering walls. 

That darkly stretch along, 

Was that the snake whose deadly sting 
This desolation brought, 

In glory now inhabiting 

The ruins he has wrought? 


The heavy clouds seem loth to pass 
Above this mournful scene, 

Till on this now unvalued grass 
Their pitying tears have been. 
Alas! proud Babylon for all 

Thou wast in days gone by, 
Before to ruins thou didst fall 
Forever’ so to lie. 


















































































































THE BRIDEGROOM’S SONG. 


“ ! sing me a song, chosen lord of my heart,” 

Said the beautiful bride to the man, 

“ For I long to be cheered by that magical art, 
That came to my bosom at first like a dart , 

But now is a curative balm. 


“O! yes,” said the husband, “I’ll sing you a song, 
For how could I silent remain, 

When you ask me to sing, if to me did belong 
Any musical power,” and then fell from his tongue 
This riddle, which you must explain : 

The sun was low sinking behind the dark hills, 
That gloomily rose in the west, 

And fell on the ear the low murmur of rills, 

The heart with a feeling of sadness that fills, 

Too lonely on earth to be blest. 


175 


if6 MOSS'S POEMS. 

I wandered alone far away in the woods, 

On the beauties of nature to muse; 

For the heart will delight in such lone solitudes, 

Where all undisturbed it in ecstasy broods 
Upon fancy’s enjoyments profuse. 

My fond heart could scarcely avoid the conceit, 

That the flowers that bloomed in my way, 

Where woodnymphs, whose smiles were surpassingly sweet. 
Whose charms had attracted my wayfaring feet, 

By the power of some magical sway. 

But thus as I roved where the soft zephyrs stirred 
The green boughs and blossoms around, 

But little expecting the like, when I heard 
The soft, winning notes of a musical bird: 

I listened with joy to the sound. 

All mateless it sung; whether mate it had lost, 

Or mate it had never enjoyed, 

I knew not, but said to myself, let it cost 

What it will, I will seek thee and value thee most; 

For thou art a gem unalloyed. 

I followed it up, and caught it at last, 

And pressed it with joy to my heart. 

Oh! strange it may seem, but that instant was passed 
The gloom from my heart that had ever been cast, 

Like a cloud that would never depart. 



** I wandered alone far away in the woods. 
On the beauties ot nature to muse.” 






















THE BRIDEGROOM'S SONG. 


'77 


1 said to myself, as I gazed on my bird, 

‘No more need I wander alone. 

Where the music of winds and of waters is heard, 
Sought only by those whose fond hopes are deferred, 
1 will stay with my beautiful one.’ 

And so, when the shadows of twilight are thrown, 
Like a veil o’er the face of the earth, 

I'll wander not forth, as I did, all alone, 

But close to my bosom my own pretty one, 

I will keep, for I’ve found out her worth. 






ELEGY ON THE ILLS OF LIFE. 



f all the sorrows of this life 

Were brought at once to view, 
Unequal to so sore a strife, 

Our hearts it would undo. 


At birth we gasp for our first breath 
That we may cry in pain, 

And as we journey on to death, 

We cease not to complain. 

The sweetest moments life can know 
Possess their sad alloys; 

How oft the darkest hour of woe 
Succeeds the smile of joy. 

When I the race of life began, 

That race to me so sore, 

A grief-commingled, mournful plan, 
Its sweetest aspect wore. 


*79 


180 MOSS'S POEMS . 

Inspiring hope still led me on, 

Each grief I thought the last; 

I thought, Alas! when it was gone, 
My sorrows would be past. 

I thought in time some better day 
Had been for me decreed, 

And that into some fairer way 
The path of grief would lead. 

But I have found my hopes in vain. 
My sorrows still increase, 

And life forever fraught with pain, 
And destitute of peace. 

Oh! had I died when I was young 
My sorrows had been o’er, 

But now that I have lived so long, 

I long to live the more, 


Still cares unnumbered, griefs untold 
Weigh down this saddened heart, 
And time as it has onward rolled, 

Did no relief impart. 

If e’er I smiled when virtue fell; 

Or frowned to see her rise, 

The griefs that in my bosom swell, 
Might kindle no surprise. 


ELEGY ON THE ILLS OF LIFE. 181 


But I have sought the ways of peace, 
And found the ways of strife; 

And shunning still the thorny road, 
Have trod it all my life. 

It may be that some evil spring 
Still lurks within the heart, 

And ever brings the painful thing, 
And woos the avenging dart. 

If so may heaven in mercy find, 

And send the cleansing stream, 

Expel the darkness of my mind, 

With its illumining beam. 




THE EMIGRANT, 


?v he western emigrant from far 

Had driven his weary team, 
And on the edge of a huge lake 
Beheld the sun’s last gleam. 


“What are our prospects,” from behind, 
The anxious wife cried out; 

“No further can we go,” said he, 

“And cannot turn about.” 


“The gloom of night has shut us in; 

Our team is in the mud, 

And if we forward move a step, 

We’ll plunge into the flood.” 

“ Not very cheering, that,” she said, 
“But here we’ll halt to-night,. 

And eat the bread we brought with us, 
And wait for next day’s light.” 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


184 

Thus the poor emigrant forsakes 
His home of early life, 

And journeys, seeking for a land 
Of less turmoil and strife. 

But, swamped and weary, just as he 
Eats his last crust from home, 
Death’s night comes on, and he retires 
To rest within the tomb. 

And strangers come to fatten on 
The fruits of all his toil, 

Heedless of him whose spirit first 
Breathed life into the soil. 



EPITAPH. 


IN MEMORY OF A DECEASED RELATIVE. 


g E RE lieth the tried and the tempted, 
Released from his warfare on earth, 

He fought, but his strength being weakness 
The helper of sinners came forth. 

Then he told the glad tale of redemption 
Through Him that is mighty to save, 
And fell at the post of his duty, 

And now wears the crown of the brave. 



185 











INSCRIPTION 
ON THE GRAVESTONE OF 
JENNINGS J. MOSS, 

Who Died February 14th, 1878. 


The toiling hands beneath this sod 
In friendship’s grasp were true ; 
Bravely, and ever trusting God, 

He fought life’s battle through. 



187 













































































THE POET'S APOLOGY. 


“JJ’ve read your verses, Poet,” saith my friend, 
“And find no information in them all, 

No science , our condition here to mend, 

No narrative of facts historical; 

Then tell me, wherefore were they ever penned; 
Why did you write at all?” 


Oh! speak not harshly of the poets lay, 

Though it but little wisdom may contain; 

If it but serves to while an hour away, 

Which otherwise would be distressed with pain, 
And we feel less the burden of the day, 

Enough do we not gain? 

Life was not given to be all spent in toil, 

All wasted in the hardening strife for gain; 
This earth can yield no compensating spoil, 

That can make good the loss which we sustain, 
Should we, too eager in its vain turmoil, 

Neglect the poet’s strain. 



MOSS'S POEMS. 


igo 

Ev’n while we sing what seems an idle song. 

We from us life's regrets and tortures flinof. 
And waken from the soothing trance more strong. 
To bear the pain, or do the painful thing. 

Then let me grow, of life’s harsh work and wrong. 
Forgetful while I sine. 

’Tis not in vain to let our souls escape 
Occasionally from the dull concerns 
That too much occupy us, and to shape 

The airy castle for which nature yearns— 

With spirit-wove tapestry to drape 

Life's dark sepulchral urns. 

The swain that sits upon the lonely rock, 

Or soft reclines beneath the shady tree, 

In meditative musing, gains a stock 

Of sweet conceptions that may one day be 
A key life's tread-mill prison to unlock, 

And set the an^el free! 

o 


My lay may only be nonsensical; 

Better nonsensical than something worse ; 
Oh! anything, Oh! anything at all, 

If it but wean a moment from life's curse— 
Toil and anxiety. Then on me let fall 
The soothing spell of verse. 


THE POETS APOLOGY. 


j 9 r 

Then let me in the soothing roundelay, 

Forgetful be of life’s corroding cares, 

And find myself the stronger when the day 
Of effort comes upon me unawares, 

Rest for the soldier fits him for the fray, 

As well as arms he bears. 





ADDRESS TO AN OYSTER. 

^oble bivalve, of most prodigious size, 

My greeting unto thee is hearty, very, 
And I look on thee with as happy eyes, 

As heathen cannibal on missionary, 

Fried, stewed or roasted ; 

Still tender, though a hundred years of merry 
Life hast thou coasted. 


Thou wert not swift on foot, not even when young ; 

It mattered not—thy blessings came unto thee; 
And since thy deep sea musings ne’er were sung, 
O! tell me in what sort of verse to do thee, 
And what thy occupation, 

And joys and sorrows were, before they drew thee 
From thy deep station. 


*93 








MOSS'S POEMS . 


194 

Wert thou an oyster of superior rank 

Wearing a pearl of great price on thy bosom: 
One who from golden cups thy liquor drank, 

Without a thought that thou shouldst ever lose ’em, 
Or one of the low fellows 
Who knuckle to the ruffians who abuse em- 
Say, canst thou tell us? 

Say, is it true, as wise men have averred, 

That pearls are but the tears of sea-sick oysters ? 
Do oysters feel themselves at all ill starred, 

When raked from out their subterranean cloisters? 
When men for food prepare you, 

And when the ocean is a little boisterous, 

Say, does it scare you ? ” 

That thou art somewhat lacking in backbone, 

Grieve not, my friend, for that is the condition 
Of many of thy betters. Not alone, 

Art thou in that; the preacher, politician, 

Are like thee ; but I’m puzzled, 

If thou art brainless or all brains. Decision 


Give, if not muzzled. 


ADDRESS TO AN OYSTER. 


1 95 


Men fish for oysters with a noble zeal, 

To fatten on them. What do oysters swallow, 
That they may have their proper share of weal? 

Or is it quite enough for them to wallow 
Upon the ocean’s bottom, 

And have an easy time, unlike the fellow, 

At last that caught ’em. 


My noble fellow ! judging from thy size, 

Thy years cannot be less than several hundred; 
And didst thou grow in all that time more wise, 

Or faithful stick to folly, and still blundered, 
Like human creatures, scorning 
Wise counsels that now pleaded, and now thundered 
In voice of warninof. 


In vain I question thee, no answers come ; 

I need not ask thy politics, religion, 

Or social standing in thy briny home; 

But when I gulp thee to my gastric region, 
Thy form will change to human; 

Must man ere he becomes half man, half pigeon, 
Be ate by some one ? 













EVENING 





















EVENING MUSINGS. 


is evening now; and let me sit 
Upon this mountain, where I see 
The *tops of others faintly lit 

By the sun’s rays, which soon shall be 
Withdrawn far o’er the western sea, 
And I be left alone, to muse, 

In darkness o’er a destiny 
So full of ill. The soul reviews 
Its long lost hopes at this lone hour, 
Beneath the darkening oaken bower. 

o 


I grieve not for the losses mine, 

But for the joys that never were ; 

Not o’er my miseries I repine 

But that which might my feelings stir 
With joy unbounded, nor deter 
My love for Him to whom I’d owe 
The rapture given, far lovelier 
Than aught beside he could bestow, 

While here on earth, I roam forlorn, 

And see the rose, and pluck the thorn. 


197 



MOSS'S POEMS . 


The distant hills which darkly rise 

To meet my gaze, and the wide fields, 
Spread out so fair beneath the skies, 

And all that I can see, now yields 
To me a thrill of life, and wields 
Over my soul a power divine ; 

But from a consciousness ne’er shields 
My spirit of what is not mine ; 

For whatsoe’er is shown to me, 

There is but one thing which I see. 


And in the distant grove I hear 

The voice of some delighted bird, 
Whose notes now fall upon my ear, 

• As from a friend some soothing- word ; 
But Ah! there is a voice unheard, 
Which leaves a yawning vacancy 

Within my soul, divinely stirred 
By the remembered melody 
Of days now gone, which left behind 
Their trace of blight upon my mind. 


How softly breathes the balmy gale 
That wafts its odors from afar, 
And gently floating o’er the vale, 

It leaves but one thing to debar 
My soul, at each appearing star, 


EVENING MUSINGS. 


*99 


From a delight that nas no spring, 

When there is one thing left to mar 
The harmony of every string 
Of life; and we but sadly see 
What might so fill with ecstasy. 


And there some insect’s voice I hear; 

His evening song he sings once more ; 
And is there aught to him so dean 
As unto me what I deplore, 

And that which nothing can restore, 
Left to the will of man’s control, 

But still I find it what can pour 
A hallowed influence on the soul ; 

A thought which takes not all away 
Of beauty round me that doth lay. 


The sun is set; I see no more 

His rays illumining aught, but still, 
The moon and stars in part restore 
The light he has not left, and fill 
The heart with a delightful thrill, 
And all that meets the wandering gaze, 
As if to form the human will, 

A soothing loveliness displays ; 

But all the charms in what I see 
Are lost in those denied to me. 


200 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


The far off hills which darkly rise, 

And frown upon the vale below, 

As if to meet the glowing skies, 

Which on their oak crowned summits throw 
The beams of light that on them glow ; 
And, softly, sweetly, far and near, 

What loveliness springs up to show 
The hand of Him that placed it here. 

The murmuring breezes through the grove 
Are but the whispered voice of love. 


The rocks have lost their sunset gleam, 
Which lie confusedly scattered round, 
And now dark, shapeless masses seem, 

As destitute of form as sound. 

The bat incessant wavering round, 
And wheeling through the dusky air, 

Yonder, I see, where, like a mound, 
There rises up a hillock bare, 

And branches in the breezes wave 
Around me ; but not them I crave. 


My heart though it be desolate 

Of all that it can wish for here, 

Sinks not beneath the crushing weight, 

o o 1 

But soars along with yon bright sphere, 
Which seems as it were drawing near. 


EVENING MUSINGS. 


20 T 


To woo my gaze and win my soul, 

From this vain world, and dry the tear, 
Which down the cheek might sadly roll ; 
The starry vault may say rejoice, 

The lone heart cannot heed the voice. 


And now once more I raise my eyes 

Where smiling Scynthia leads her train. 
Delightfully strewn o’er the skies, 

And wandering round the heavenly plain. 
Where harmony doth hold her reign, 

And sweetly smile with joy to see 
The stars departed come again, 

New as at first and swiftly flee 
Far o’er the fields of paradise, 

Not wholly hid evn from these eyes. 


I raise my eyes to heaven ; they fall 

To earth again ; for heaven and earth 
Now hold me in their thrilling thrall, 

A rapture different all from mirth, 

Which might so much augment the worth 
Of nature to my musing heart, 

Which from its cave of death looks forth, 
And sees delight, but feels the dart. 

Then come sweet sleep, and in my dream, 
What cannot be , permit to seem . 














SONNET. 


^ feel within my heart such craving deep 

For something which I have not, that I turn 
To the wide universe that I may learn 
Of something satisfying; but I reap 
No benefit, and turn away and weep. 

And while my heart doth with its hunger burn, 
The only satisfying food I spurn; 

And at my task of seeking still I keep. 

Having exhausted all my strength in vain 

I turn, my gracious God, at last, to Thee, 
And find relief from all my misery. 

From Thee, O! God, who wast the first to deign 
To offer me a helping hand, I gain 

The good that fills my life’s dark vacancy. 


20 3 




















MOUNTAIN TEA. 


pj i g h on the mountain’s side, 

I gather mountain tea ; 

And looking forth upon creation’s pride, 

What wonders do I see! 

But of all things that greet 

o o 

My vision where I be, 

Nought speaks unto my heart such language sweet, 
As this wee mountain tea. 

Its sturdy little stem, 

With leaflets two or three, 

Hath braved the winter. How can I contemn 
The little mountain tea? 

Behold! it is no weed, 

That winter makes to flee ; 

Its stem is wood , yes, hard wood ; ’tis indeed 
A veritable tree. 

205 


206 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


The wintry winds that blew, 

And felled the giant oak, 

Could not the little mountain tea undo, 

That safe withstood the stroke. 

And more than all, the cold , 

The messenger of death 
To all frail things, on this wee thing so bold, 
In vain did blow its breath. 

And wherefore do I seek 
The little mountain tea, 

That nestles at my straying feet so meek, 
And scarce the tall trees see. 

Ah ! wherefore, but because 
This little forest gem, 

With its delightful taste and fragrance draws ; 
Mere bulk is given to them. 


And thus it is with man ; 

The lowly of the earth, 

May give more pleasure than the great ones can. 
And be of more true worth. 

And when with glad surprise, 

The little mountain tea, 

I see all safe, although the wintry skies 

Were harsh as harsh could be, 


MOUNTAIN TEA . 


20J 

I think within my heart, 

There may be ev’n for me, 

A power superior to all human art, 

By which I’ll sheltered be. 

A lesson thus I’ll take 

From this dear little tree, 

And when life’s storms in fury o’er me break, 

I’ll think of mountain tea. 









I u R general, Lovegood, long had fought 
The stubborn foe that stood 

Malignant, dark and fierce, right in 
The pathway to the Good. 

2 

With various fortunes on each side, 

The war had Ion of been waged ; 

Sometimes the Right victorious seemed, 
But oft the foe that raged. 

o 

3 

But as the centuries one by one 
Dragged sad and slow along. 

The right though seeming to slide back, 
Made progress and grew strong. 














210 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


4 

For Truth, though prostrate on the field, 
And trampled under foot, 

Cast heavenward still his eye, and fought, 
And called the bold recruit. 

5 

He who commanded all our force, 
Directed every move, 

Had left us for a little while, 

Our faithfulness to prove. 

6 

Aweary with the long delay 
Of victory complete, 

And almost fearful that at last 
The end would be defeat, 

7 

The under captains of the host 
That mustered for the right, 

Took counsel with each other on 
The methods of the fight. 

8 

Oh! then came plainly out to view 
The different hearts of men, 

Who, wearing the same uniform, 

Showed different natures then. 

9 

Some counseled this way, others that, 

But wise or otherwise, 

All their true inwardness displayed 
In what they did advise. 








" Said he, ’Tis my belief that we 
Associate too much 
With feeble ones whose bodies would 
Just crumble at a touch.” 






















211 


LOVEGOOD'S ARMY . 

10 

The first to open mouth to let 
His pent up wisdom forth, 

Was Mr. Niceman, known to be 
A man of parts and worth. 

11 

Now Mr. Niceman, as he thought, 

Was friendly to the cause, 

And many other soldiers true. 

Of that opinion was. 

12 

Said he, “ I think one great mistake 
On our part has been made, 

And from this circumstance, I think, 

Has victory been delayed. 

13 

You know, my friends, the foe is strong, 
And fearful full of fight, 

And we are but a feeble folk 
Who battle for the right. 

14 

Now my advice is, not to make 
The enemy so mad, 

And thus, though victory be not gained, 
May peace at last be had. 

15 

I’ve noticed when our soldiers struck 
Some sore and tender spot, 

The foe became more furious, and 
The battle waxed more hot. 


212 MOSS'S POEMS . 

16 

Now I advise to strike the foe 
On places not so sore, 

And he may soon be reconciled, 

And contest will be o’er. 

* 17 

Then let us be more circumspect 
In how we carry on, 

And we who fight each other now 
Will all become as one. 

18 

And I would add that our rough ways 
Keep off the nice recruit, 

Who better than the ones we get 
Our purposes would suit. 

19 

He ceased, and next him rose to speak, 
Good Mr. Craftyman, 

And said: To you I would propose 
A most superior plan. 

20 

My plan is this: Let all of us 
Who battle for the right, 

Cease our peculiar ways, and do 

Like those ’gainst whom we fign 

o C? 

21 

If we adopt their manners, they 
Will persecute us less, 

And by and by perhaps adopt 
The doctrines we profess. 


L O V EG OOD'S ARMY. 213 

22 

You see they fight us just because 
We’re so unlike to them, 

And if we change, they’ll see in us 
But little to condemn. 

23 

Instead of warfare’s hardships then, 

We’d all become as one, 

And nothing have to do but eat 
And drink, and have our fun. 

24 

Next, Mr. Strong, whose strength had been 
So well economized, 

The foe had borne but little loss 
From one so amply sized. 

25 

Said he, ’Tis my belief that we 
Associate too much 

With feeble ones whose bodies would 
Just crumble at a touch. 

26 

Now let us choose the vigorous men, 

The few that we possess, 

And call in others stout and tad 

And heaven the cause will bless. 

27 

Our feeble ones have ever been 
A hindrance to the cause ; 

They fight the foe contrary to 
All military laws. 


214 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


28 

Instead of marching in a line, 

In beautiful array, 

To make the enemy admire 

And fill them with dismay, 

29 

They single handed fight the foe, 

And so imprudent are, 

They take no count of numbers, nor 
The stratagems of war. 

30 

While I advise the mighty men 
Of earth to gather in, 

And not till we outnumber foes, 

The fighting to begin. 

31 

And then our fierce and proud array 
Will terrify them till 

They take to flight, and we’ll not need 
A drop of blood to spill. 

32 

The argument of Mr. Strong 

Was heard with great applause; 

Particularly was admired 

The speaker’s final clause. 

33 

Then several men of stature small 
Attempted one by one, 

To gain a hearing for themselves, 
Which hardly could be done. 


215 


LOVEGOOD'S ARMY. 

34 

But one at last was heard to say 
To that excited throne, 

The fighting heretofore was done 
But little by the strong. 

35 

And less by those that marched in line 
In elegant array ; 

Their time and talents were consumed 
In making a display. 

And he would just suggest this one 
Improvement in the art 

Of war, to load their cannons with 
A little more of heart. 

37 

He ceased, for scarcely had been heard 
The words which he had spoke, 

Appearing half regretful that 
His silence he had broke. 

38 

And other speakers did some things 
Additional advise, 

But what was said by Mr. Strong, 

Was thought to be most wise. 

39 

And then the camp was searched throughout, 
For hearty men and hale, 

And everybody seemed to think 
That soon we would prevail. 


2l6 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


40 

A most imposing host they were, 

Those handsome men and gay ; 

On drill they marched and countermarched, 

As eager for the fray. 

41 

At length the day of battle came, 

And sooner than they thought 

And for a little space of time, 

Both armies fiercely fought. 

42 

But much to the surprise of all, 

The foe the victory gained, 

And our grand army did retreat, 

And could not be restained. 

43 

In terror flying from the field, 

Wounded and stricken sore, 

Our captains foremost on retreat, 

Who hindmost were before. 

44 

Like chickens cowering in their fear, 

Before the approaching hawk, 

These big fine fellows were afraid 
Even of the cause to talk . 

45 

As pell-mell they came running in, 

And all with terror pale, 

They heard the questions, What ? Oh! Why ? 
How came you so to fail ? 


In terror flying from the field. Our captains foremost on retreat 

Wounded and stricken sore, Who hindmost were before.” 




*»> i 





-. 











































LOVEGOOD S ARMY. 


217 


46 

Then Pretty boy replied that he 
Courageous kept his place, 

Till fear o’ercame lest he should get 
A scar upon his face 

47 

For well he knew the pretty girl 
That he had left behind, 

Though bound to him by cords of love, 
A scar would all unbind. 

48 

Strong would have been a terror to 
Whatever did oppose, 

But in the fighting he could not 
Distinguish friends from foes . 

49 

And Mr. Niceman said that when 
The fighting did begin, 

He thought to kill an enemy dead 
Would be a dreadful sin. 

50 

If he could just have made ’em run 
With just a little scratch , 

For any foe upon the field 

He would have been a match. 

51 

All things were in confusion now 
Pertaining to the cause ; 

It seemed to all of all the days 
The darkest ever was. 


218 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


52 

Our highest wisdom had been tried, 

But had been tried in vain ; 

The flower of all our force was fled, 
And all our bravest slain. 

53 

The brightest, proudest of our host 
Refused our cause to own, 

And as in scorn they left our camp, 

We felt so left alone. 

54 

But in the distance some descried 
One solitary man, 

He brought with him no retinue, 

And on his feet he ran. 

55 

He came as comes a ministering friend, 
With solemn looks of love, 

With no display of outward pomp 
His majesty to prove. 

56 

And yet it was the king himself, 

Of all his power possessed, 

To help what seemed a failing cause, 
Betrayed by friends professed. 

57 

Some thought he could not be the king, 
Because he was not dressed 

With crown or mitre, or with sash, 

Or gewgaws on his breast. 



“ But in the distance some descried 


One solitary man, 

He brought with him no retinue. 
And on hi* feet he ran.” 






















* 

- 




































































































LOV EG OOD'S ARMY. 

58 

The wisest could not tell why they 
Acknowledged him as Lord, 
Because it was the heart that did 
The evidence afford. 

59 

Then one came up to him and said, 

“ If thou indeed art Lord, 

Why didst thou not in grandeur come, 
And with a flaming sword ?” 

bO 

Then came the mild reply, " I thought 
It fitting most to come 
To sad defeated friends without 
The bugle blast, or drum. 

61 

It does not take the mountain storm 
That flashed on Sinai’s brow, 

To bind the wounds or wipe the tears 
That I see falling now.” 

62 

He gave command that all his friends 
His banner should exalt, 

And he’d selection make of those 
For war with least of fault. 

63 

Then came the men of noble mien, 
The men of brilliant parts, 
Expecting to be chose, and men 
Versed in war’s subtle arts. 


220 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


64 

But them he passed neglectful by, 

And chose the halt and blind, 

The weak, ill-favored ones, and those 
Who were to death resigned. 

65 

Scarce able to stand up they stood, 

Or sighing crawled along, 

Past those who looked contemptuous on, 
The beautiful and strong. 

66 

Such army all unpromising 
Was never seen before, 

And what appeared most odd of all, 

No uniform they wore. 

67 

A few tall men were taken to 
Complete the Master’s plan, 

But scarcely did that sighing host 
Exhibit one sound man. 

68 

No need had they of fife or drum, 

Their way to advertise, 

The comrades knew each other by 
The music of their sighs. 

69 

Now some declared the king himself 
Was an impostor sure, 

Or else was not in his right mind, 

His judgment was so poor. 


221 


LOVEG OOD'S ARMY. 

70 

And many that appeared to love 
The cause exceeding well, 

Despised their comrades so that they 
From their allegiance fell. 

71 

The army now consisted of 
A strange conglomerate, 

Of all things most desirable 
Or most deplored in fate. 

72 

With these our general took the field 
To battle once again, 

For those great rules of right for which 
So many had been slain. 

73 

The foe was met, the battle rag-ed, 

And after weary hours, 

Did Lovegood’s army put to rout 
The fierce opposing powers. 

74 

Each had indeed some strength to do, 
But far more strength to bear, 

And fought the foe expecting still 
To make his death bed there. 

75 

But how they conquered none could tell, 
They only knew they fought, 

Their bosoms all aglow with zeal, 

Their sorrows they forgot. 


222 


MOSS'S POEMS . 


76 

The soldier in that glorious fight 
Whose stature was not tall, 
Escaped the stroke above his head 
Because he was but small. 

77 

The man who had one palsied arm, 
(The other wielded spear) 

When foeman pierced that palsied arm 
Shrank not with pain or fear. 

78 

The soldier with but one good eye, 
The other being blind, 

Unterrified saw not the things 
To frighten him designed. 

79 

The poor old soldier wholly blind, 

A useful soldier proved, 

Though in his progress guided by 
The sighs of those he loved. 

80 

For in the battle’s raging rush. 

The foemen full of pride 
Stumbled o’er him, and luckless fell 
On their own swords and died. 

81 

One soldier said he feared so much 
Amid the furious fray, 

Had he not been a cripple, he 
Had surely ran away. 


LOVEGOOD'S ARMY. 

82 

One lovelorn youth did meet the foe, 

And all their threatenings spurn, 
Because he had no sweetheart true 
To welcome his return. 

83 

It seemed to lookers on whose ears 
The soldiers’ sighings caught, 

In desperation of distress 

The battlefield they sought. 

84 

But no ; each man his king and cause, 
For which he bravely fought, 

Loved better than by lookers on, 

Or by himself was thought. 

85 

For when the haters of the good 
Their tempting bribes did press, 
Hungry, from food they turned away, 
Naked, from sumptuous dress. 

86 

And one inquirer wondering said, 

“ How came those men to fail, 

Who promised such great things and yet 
In battle they turned tail.” 

87 

Then one with deep discerning mind. 

This truthful answer made, 

“ Whatever they seemed, they only loved 
The bounty and parade.” 


2H 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


88 

Good fortune having cast a smile 
Upon the faithful few, 

Selfseeking soldiers joined their ranks, 

To claim the glory due. 

89 

And these in turn disaster brought, 

And dark confusion there ; 

The pendulum of fortune swung 
From glory to despair. 

90 

And thus it has been since the war 
Twixt Right and Wrong began, 

All progress being made upon 
The oscillating plan. 

91 

And round their campfires blazing bright, 
Or marching on their way, 

The faithful soldiers shouting sang, 

And conquered their dismay. 

92 

The war still rages ; all who wish 
To join their numbers, may, 

But must for lasting good exchange 
The comforts of to-day. 



A SIGH. 


Alas ! this life is but a strife 

With powers our powers above, 
For evermore the heart will pore 
O’er its lost treasure, love. 


22$ 



















JT)hilosophy and science have I sought, 

And felt no little pride at times to view 
Some truth which none before me ever knew; 
But when my heart the lore of love was taught, 
And on me all its wierd enchantments wrought, 
Aside my instruments of skill I threw. 

All inconsistent as it was to do, 

Instead of then pursuing as I ought, 

With playful pranks the charmer of my heart, 

Alone I sought the mountain gorge and cave, 
And stalked apart through lonesome wilds to rave, 
And had no power to use the pleasing art 
That would have won sweet healing to my heart, 
Which vainly to the winds its madness gave. 
























































































































































AUTUMN 































THE FALL. 


Why do they call it Fall? 

That season of the year when forest leaves 
Are brightest dressed, and Natures hand for all, 
A shroud of glory weaves. 

Is it because that then 

The ripened fruits and rattling nuts come down, 

To give more strength unto the hearts of men 
To bear the winter’s frown ? 

Is it because we see 

The painted leaf come whirling to the ground, 
Or ’neath our feet, which yet unshod may be, 
The stinging frost is found. 

How strange that Nature thus 
In bounteous gifts and glory overflows, 

Just at the time she holds in hand for us, 

Her flood of freezing woes. 


229 


2 J0 


MOSS'S POEMS. 


All things unto the eye, 

Appear most beautiful and promising, 

And as we feast, we scarce can think close by 
Stands Winter, the stern king. 

’Tis thus in human life, 

In our hearts dreamings, with impatient breath, 
We stretch our hands for fruit of toil and strife, 
And seize the monster, Death! 

The strong and brave young man, 

In his full strength exhibits most of life, 

When death, or worse, temptation, mars the plan, 
And ill, not good, is rife. 

The beautiful fair maid, 

That stood secure till she was most of all 
Bewitching, in her loveliness arrayed, 

Have we not seen to fallf 

Oh! when shall come the time, 

When good shall come to man in brightest forms, 
And we can lift our hearts to thoughts sublime, 
Nor fear approaching storms? 

In the sweet, solemn woods, 

Which we delight to roam through when ’tis fall, 
May we not something, in our musing moods, 

Of deathless truth recall. 



































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